Freudian
by Fabulist
Summary: *AU*  Flynn Rider's terms of parole include going to therapy, and they don't expressly forbid hanging around with that one awkward graffiti girl.
1. Chapter 1

Dr. Jones shifted in her seat, lifting her bifocals from where they hung from a chain around her neck so she could stare down at her nose through them at Flynn. She really wasn't a bad looking lady. He'd ask for her home number if she weren't so damn uptight.

"So, Mr.… _Rider_. Let's say you _had_ pulled off the robbery at the Corona Museum. What then? What would you have done with that crown?"

Flynn sighed. Shrinks always wanted to know _why_. As if the motive behind theft weren't obvious. "I'd have hocked it, and been filthy rich."

She nodded, even though it was clear she didn't understand. "And what would you have done with the money?"

"I don't know," Flynn said, exasperated. "Whatever I felt like. I'd have bought a penthouse. I'd have flown around the world on a private jet just for fun. I'd have bought an island – yeah, that's what I'd do. If I had that crown now, I'd sell it so I could buy an island."

"…an island."

"Yeah. Just for me. No other people. None of the crowds like the city. None of the stink. Just me and some palm trees. I'd just work on my tan all day long."

"But you'd be all alone," Dr. Jones said. "Or would you buy yourself friends as well?"

"Who needs 'em? An island to myself. That's what I want."

Dr. Jones hummed, scribbling something on her pad and pursing her lips. He didn't bother asking what she wrote – she never told him. "And what is your living situation like right now?" she asked.

"Oh you know," he said, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, ankle to knee. "I like to move around, I'm not home often."

She narrowed her eyes, her mouth twitching down at the corners. "You do have someplace to stay, don't you?"

"Of course," said Flynn, flashing a smile. "Wanna see it?"

"How kind of you to offer," Dr. Jones said with a glare. "But no. Where did you grow up?"

"I'm a citizen of the world!" Flynn boasted. "You name it, I've been there."

"Were your parents in the military then? Diplomats?"

"Something like that."

Dr. Jones's expression was unreadable, but Flynn knew what she was thinking. It was what his shrinks always thought. "Your records say otherwise," he said simply. "They say I never had any parents."

She nodded. "There is a bit of a disparity between what you've told me today and what I have here in your file."

"Lady, I can't speak very highly of police record keeping. Have you seen the sketches of me their artists did? They just can't get my nose right."

She didn't even smile, only looked more thoughtful. "You're very fond of your appearance, aren't you?"

"Is that a trick question? What's not to be fond of? My dashing smile? My smoldering brown eyes? The way it always looks like the wind is in my hair?" He turned this way and that. "Seriously, Doc. There isn't any airflow in this stuffy office and yet – it wafts. My hair wafts. It's a gift, really. I was born this way."

"Your self esteem is impressive."

"Sure, sure, write it off as my self esteem and not your undeniable attraction to me. I know you're probably scared – it's okay. It's normal. Even shrinks can't resist me. Don't worry about losing your job – I won't tell if you won't."

Dr. Jones quickly glanced at the clock, clearing her throat. "That's quite enough for today, _Flynn_. Stop by Sandra's desk on your way out, she'll set up your next appointment. I will let your parole officer know you've begun treatment. Next week we'll discuss medication."

"Don't waste your time," Flynn said, getting to his feet. "No drugs can make me less irresistible. My pheromones are indomitable."

"We can discuss your pheromones next week, as well. It was nice meeting you."

Flynn winked and swaggered out of the office, sure that she was watching his ass. They always watched his ass.

* * *

><p>That night, the bar was packed. More work, but there was a bachelorette party, so more tips as well. The ladies were sprawled over their stools, ordering one Cosmo after another. Behind them, a bunch of slobs leered, and behind <em>them<em> the hockey fans hollered at the TV and threw back pint after pint. Flynn would have preferred not working at all – he didn't like being expected to show up somewhere, and he didn't like paying taxes, either – but his parole officer was always breathing down his neck, and part of the conditions of his release was that he hold a steady job and get therapy. He'd take bar tending and hitting on Dr. Jones over jail.

A skinny blonde with a _maid of honor_ sash waved a hundred crown bill and offered a devious smile. He headed over and she quirked a finger at him, hoisting herself up on the bar so her breasts brushed his arm when she leaned up to whisper in his ear. "I'll let you keep the change if you give a little sugar to Tina, here. It's her last night as a single lady."

Flynn smiled. "How much sugar?"

"A kiss will do. With tongue."

The bride-to-be was swaying on her stool a little, looking Flynn over, up and down, completely unashamed. He should really cut her off. She was incredibly drunk and promised to another man. But neither of those things were really his problem, and he could use the money.

Did whoring count as a steady job?

He gave them another round and barely bent over the bar before said bride launched herself at him, twining her arms around his neck and sucking his tongue right into her mouth. She tasted like triple sec and desperation, but it wasn't the _worst _drunken slobber fest he'd ever been a part of.

After several long moments he pulled back, but she clung to him like a barnacle. "How much for another?"

He smiled gently, reaching up to detach her arms. "I think you've had enough." She was close to puke-drunk, and that wasn't appealing to him as a bartender or as someone who might otherwise take advantage of the situation.

She pouted, and he nipped her extended lower lip. "If it doesn't work out with Mr. Right, or even if it does, you know where to find me." At fifty crowns a kiss, he might yet buy that island.

The bride started looking decidedly green, and Flynn didn't feel like finding the mop, so he flagged Joe, the other bartender. "I'm going out for a butt," he said. "Back in ten."

He wove through the crowd, past the groping swooning bachelorettes and the leather-clad pool players and the victorious U Corona Polo team as they crushed beer cans with their heads. He pushed through the back door and took the steps two and a time, patting his pockets to find his cigarettes.

It wasn't the seediest bar in town by a long shot, but it was seedy enough, and the fresh night air on the roof was cool and good on his skin and in his lungs. He took a few deep breaths before lighting up, cupping his hand around the flame to fend off the evening breeze. The night was clear, and the stars were visible even with all the light pollution. Wind came in off of the ocean and made the air slightly sticky, slightly salty.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift out along the breeze towards the old castle, half crumbling now on the top of the hill. Part of it had been restored and was now a museum. Some days he thought about actually buying admission and going in, maybe just the age old need to return to the scene of the crime. But if he were caught anywhere _near_ that crown it was a one-way ticket back to Bleach Street for him, and he'd had enough of prison.

There was a sudden squeaking sound, like a scared mouse, and he turned to see some kid in a hoodie backing away from him, a can of spray paint falling from their grip. Behind them, on the dirty brick of the taller building next door, an enormous sun was outlined in orange and purple, jagged rays extending in all directions. It was a definite improvement over the array of genitalia someone had painted there before.

Flynn tapped some ash away, nodding. "How patriotic," he said. "Nice."

Even under the bulky sweatshirt he could tell the _artiste_ was female, he kind of had an eye for those things. Plus, she had a distinctly feminine voice when she "meep"ed again.

"Gotta warn you though, the cops tend to come by this bar a lot. Not really the best spot for doodling."

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking like she'd bolt at any moment. Finally, she said, "Where's a better spot?"

Flynn raised an eyebrow. Odd question. Candid. Trusting. Not qualities he tended to associate with people who hung out on the roofs of bars. "Beats me. Canvas?"

She shrugged a little, shifting out of the shadows. She was cute – big green eyes and delicate features, freckles on her fair skin. A few strands of dark hair peeked out from under her hood. "I don't… I like drawing on big things."

There was something seriously awkward about this girl. She lifted her hand a little, just her fingertips extending beyond her sleeves. "How do you do that?"

He wasn't doing anything, which meant she was talking about his standard state of being. "I can't help it, I always look this good."

She frowned a little, not the reaction he generally got. "I meant that," she pointed to his cigarette. "I see people doing it sometimes, and I don't really get it."

Something _seriously _ awkward. "It's just tobacco, if that's what you're asking." Although, at her age, she should have recognized something else by the smell.

She shook her head again, it was a sad and silly gesture, like a confused puppy or something. "No I mean… what's the point?"

Flynn took another drag, shrugging as he let the smoke blow out his nose.

She laughed a little, the sound clear and strange against the sirens and sounds from the bar below. "You look like a dragon."

Alright, how old _was_ this girl? If she was underage, and his parole officer came by, he'd be brought in just for standing next to her.

She took a step closer to him, her sneakers scuffing against the concrete. She was tiny, quite short and quite skinny, and was as out of place on the roof of the pub as a flower growing out of the taps. She smiled, and it lit up her face. "Can you do any other tricks?"

Tricks? "I was just breathing," he said.

"Oh. Well. Can you do any tricks?"

He inhaled again, then blew a few smoke rings.

She gasped, lips parting in awe. She must be homeschooled. And not own a TV. Or a radio. Or a computer. Or have any friends. "How did you do that?"

He shrugged, blowing out the rest in a huff. "You just kind of make this shape with your mouth, and then this other shape." He tried to demonstrate, but he didn't like the way it made his face feel unattractive.

She tried to mimic him, and she ended up looking kind of adorable, which wasn't fair. She reached out hesitantly. "Can I try?"

Whatever, he'd already stuck his tongue down the throat of a bride-to-be that night, he might as well give a homeschooler her first smoke. He handed her the cigarette, hoping she at least put the right end to her lips. She did.

As expected, she tried taking a breath and immediately erupted into fits of coughing as she inadvertently dropped the thing . Her spasms tossed her hood back to reveal a full head of dark brown hair. It was choppy, like her mom had cut it with safety scissors after arts and crafts. He liked brunettes, even homeschooled ones. But not as much as he disliked prisons. He patted her back gingerly.

"Easy, Tiger."

She apologized between coughs, reaching for the butt.

"Leave it," he said, pushing his toe into the embers. "My break's over anyway."

She finally straightened, her eyes red and watery. "How is that fun?"

He smiled. "You get used to it."

"Why?"

Shrinks and women, always with the 'why's. "Why is it fun to paint on grungy walls?"

She shrank back, hunching her shoulders. He didn't mean it as an insult, but she seemed to take it as one. She mumbled an answer, picking up her backpack which rattled with paint cans.

He asked "what's your name?" before he had a second to wonder why he even cared. He wasn't good with names. He met and left too many people to keep track of them. He mostly didn't bother asking anymore.

She looked like she'd been slapped, turning her face away as she flipped her hood back up and mumbled another answer.

"Huh?"

"It's stupid."

"It's probably not _that_ stupid."

She inched towards the fire escape. It was the most obvious sneak he'd ever seen. He wondered if this was the first time she'd tried anything like this. "I don't really know what my name is," she said, and the weird part was that it sounded like she was telling the truth.

Then she turned around abruptly and slipped down the stairs, not saying goodbye or looking up at him once. He watched her until she disappeared down into the subway.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Jones was wearing old fashioned stockings, the kind with the seam up the back. Flynn could see it when she recrossed her legs. Watching them made the hour go faster.

"Do you remember the first time you stole something?"

Flynn shrugged, his gaze drifting to the open window and the leafy branch scratching against the screen. "I remember the first time I was convicted."

"Yes, I think all of Corona remembers that. But I'm not talking about the crown right now. What's the _first _theft you can remember?"

Bits of memories flitted through his brain, circling and contradicting each other. He narrowed his eyebrows. "How do you know the crown wasn't my first?"

"Problems like yours don't just suddenly appear," Dr. Jones said. "During your five years at Bleach Street, you were reprimanded for over eighty instances of petty theft, and I'm guessing there were more that were unreported."

Flynn could never resist a chance to brag. "A lot more."

Dr. Jones opened his file, scanning one of the pages. "You stole pens, books, socks, iron filings, and even a fellow-inmate's gum wrapper collection."

Flynn smiled at the memory. "It came in a weird box, too. There were maybe three thousand wrappers in there. Some of them had jokes and comics."

"But you didn't read them, did you?"

"No, they were awful."

She tapped her pen against her chin. "I see here that you kept all of these things behind a loose brick in the wall under your bed."

"I had other hidings spots, too."

"Did you read any of the books? Wear the socks?"

Flynn shook his head.

"Then why did you steal them all?"

Enough with the why's! "I was bored. You said it yourself - five years. What do you want me to do in there?"

"But you didn't actually _want _any of those things."

"Sure, I wanted them."

"Why? What were you going to do with all of those gum wrappers?"

"Ask the weirdo who collected them. Wasn't my idea."

She quirked a smile. "But why did you take them?" She tilted her head, studying him.

This was a weird therapist trap, he knew it. She was looking for a specific answer, or perhaps she was trying to make the point that he didn't have an answer. The only way out of this trap was absurdity.

"Doc, the future of the gum wrappers market is looking mighty promising. There are some dedicated collectors out there who'd pay good money for those things."

She sighed, surveying her sheet like it was a test and he was failing. "Well, then, what started this trend of stealing items for their potential resale value? Do you remember the first time you did it?"

An itch crept up his spine. It wasn't really a chill. It was like a hairy caterpillar was marching right up the center of his back. He wanted out. He tossed his head, banking on the open window giving him a bonus multiplier to hair waft action. "I don't do back story."

She pursed her lips. "You do realize you're in psychotherapy, don't you?"

"And only ten sweet weeks to go. How will you cope without me?"

"Back story is the spine of psychotherapy."

Flynn smiled, kicking his feet up to rest on the coffee table. "That makes us a pair of flirting invertebrates, then."

She sighed, closing her file as she glanced at the all clock. "Well, do consider coming to sessions in more of a forthcoming spirit, _Mr. Rider_, or you're wasting your time. I'll see you next week."

It was a waste of time no matter what. Flynn knew from experience. On the way out he whipped around to catch her in the act of watching his ass, but she was putting his file back in her cabinet and shaking her head. She was a quick one.

After confirming his next session at the front desk, he noticed someone sitting in the waiting area – a familiar someone. A certain awkward vandal with freckles and green eyes.

She was still wearing the same dark hoodie, even though it was daytime and she was inside. The hood was pulled up and she had her arms crossed over her chest like she was cold. She was looking at her sneakers, turning her feet this way and that and examining them, and didn't notice him until he walked right up to her, the tips of his own shoes entering her vision.

She looked up, eyebrows lifted. "Oh," she said. Her eyes were so bright, it was almost unnatural, like she could stare right through his skull.

He shrugged off the feeling. "Yeah, 'oh.' Fancy seeing you here."

She looked left and right, then bit her lip. "Are you here to tell my therapist what I did?"

Jones was her therapist? "What you did?"

She nodded. "On the wall."

"Oh. No, it's your business where you mark your territory. Jones is my therapist, too."

Her eyes widened. "You're in therapy? Why? You seem normal."

Was that a compliment? "Seem being the operative word. But thanks. My parole officer is making me. A condition of my release." Why was he telling her that? Whatever, there was no shame in being an ex-con. Women love ex-cons.

Her eyes were as big as saucers now. "You were in prison? What did you do?" She blanched, and there was horror in her expression, as if she thought he might shank her at any moment.

"It's what I _almost_ did. If I'd succeeded, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation right now. I'd be on an island somewhere."

She looked around again, so obviously conspiratorially he wanted to laugh. It's like she learned her mannerisms from cartoons. "Because you _almost_ killed someone? You'd be exiled to an island? With cannibals?"

Where did she get this stuff? "What? No. Because I'd be rich enough to buy my own island and get away from all of this shit." And what was with all this talking he was doing? She already knew almost as much about him as his therapist did.

She looked him over thoughtfully, like his life story was written on his face. "Is that why you took the receptionist's stapler? Are you going to steal little things until you can buy your island?"

She saw that? It had been such a clean swipe. Even Sandra, the receptionist, didn't see it and he'd taken it from under her nose. "What stapler?"

"The one in your pocket. The purple mini one."

"I don't steal staplers," he said firmly. Only socks and gum wrappers. And crowns.

She frowned, eyes flickering down to his pocket where, indeed, there rested the purloined stapler. But he wasn't about to admit it, he never admitted anything.

She turned to her left, to the empty chair beside her. "What do you think, Pascal?" She nodded once, tilting her head as if considering. "That's true, he doesn't have very pointy teeth."

Flynn ran his tongue once over his incisors. Was she checking out his teeth? That was a first. Though of course they were as immaculate as the rest of him. He cleared his throat. "Who are you talking to?"

She looked irritated. "Who do you think I'm talking to?" She turned back to the chair, which was still entirely vacant. "I think we should trust him. He must have his reasons."

She must have been trying to creep him out, because there was seriously no one there. He'd heard plenty of people muttering to themselves in prison. It was her green eyes that gave him the willies.

The door opened behind them, and out stepped Dr. Jones. "Rapunzel, Dear, you can come on in."

"Rapunzel?" So that was her name, huh? No wonder she hadn't told him.

She got up, shoulders slouched. "It's probably not even my name," she mumbled, pushing past him. She glanced over her shoulder once and said "Come on, Pascal."

"Pascal's here today?" Doctor Jones asked gently, setting a hand on Rapunzel's shoulder. "That's lovely."

Rapunzel shrugged. "You told me to bring him. He doesn't like doctors very much so he's nervous."

"Well, no need for that," Dr. Jones said, ushering Rapunzel into her office and stopping to shoot Flynn a dirty look before following and closing the door behind her.

Of course, Flynn was the bad guy for talking to her, even though Rapunzel was clearly the one with issues. Flynn huffed and left the office. He was used to being blamed for everything, but he'd like to think he was above messing around with kids with identity issues and imaginary friends.

* * *

><p>A few nights later, things were slow at the bar. There weren't any games on TV and it was raining, so everybody stayed home. Flynn was wiping down the counter and giving rounds to a few of the persistent regulars. A weepy middle-aged woman had been in earlier, but he tried to sell her a kiss for fifty bucks and she slapped him and left.<p>

He'd gone to the roof for all his breaks since his run in with Rapunzel. He was always disappointed he when didn't see her, even though he wasn't sure what good would happen if he did. They'd just have an awkward conversation in which she'd accuse him of stealing office supplies and he'd say too much for his own good. Maybe he was just bored. There was something completely not boring about that girl.

Especially at that moment when she walked into the bar. Her face was set, like she was heading into battle, and she strode purposefully towards the bar and climbed up onto a stool. She took a deep breath, and said "Hi."

He put on a dashing grin, tossing the wipe rag aside. "Well, hello. Can't stay away, can you? I do have a certain magnetism."

She didn't hear him or she didn't care. "Dr. Jones told me not to talk to you."

"Did she?"

She nodded. "So I came here."

Of course? "You're going to have to explain that logic to me."

She frowned. "So far, better things have happened to me when I don't do what I'm told." She was sitting up perfectly straight, hands folded politely on the bar in front of her.

"Smart girl. Well, then I recommend you don't buy a drink and don't give me a tip."

"I'm not stupid," she scoffed, looking around the bar. "But you have to drink something to sit at a bar, don't you?"

"It's expected."

She nodded, pointing to the glass of a guy a few stools down. "Can I have that?"

Flynn raised an eyebrow. "Scotch?" he could give it to her, just to see her spit it out and look cute sputtering. But then again, he could get caught. "Can I see some ID?"

She hesitated, then fished around in her pocket for her wallet, finally handing over a federally issued photo ID. She looked miserable in the picture – extremely pale, with slightly sunken cheeks and dead eyes. It said her name was _Rapunzel Smith_, and she was eighteen. Legal for some things, not for others.

"Rapunzel Smith?" Flynn handed the ID back. "Quite a contrast in names, there."

She took a handful of bar nuts and was arranging them in different shapes on the counter. "They gave me my last name. It's not mine. First name's not mine, either."

Flynn raised an eyebrow, getting a big curvy glass and mixing some soda and grenadine. "Who's they?"

"The police."

This girl got worse and worse for him every minute. "The police named you Smith? And who named you Rapunzel?"

He put a syrupy cherry on top and handed over the drink, which Rapunzel inspected critically. "This is not what that guy has."

"You'll like it better."

She took a sip, waiting pensively for several moments before smiling and taking a few more. "I can't even taste the alcohol."

"You lush." He gestured towards the empty stool next to her. "Does Pascal want one, too?"

She looked at him like he was insane. "Pascal's not here." She pushed the peanuts into a sun shape.

"You really like that sun," he said, bringing another bowl of nuts over for her. "Just crazy about your country?"

"Just crazy," she said. "You know…" she stopped, staring at the bubbles in her drink. Then abruptly, she looked right at him. "What's your name?"

He leaned his elbows on the counter, not shying away from her gaze. "I'll tell you if you tell me where you got the name Rapunzel."

"The lady I used to live with gave it to me," she said easily.

"Not your mother?"

"That wasn't your question. What's your name?"

He opened his mouth to tell her in the dulcet tones required of a name as fine as his, and then… nothing would come out. The syllables wouldn't form on his tongue. He coughed. He took a sip of her disgustingly sweet Shirley temple. He coughed again. "It's uh… it's Flynn Rider," he said, his most anticlimactic introduction to date.

He looked for a way to change the subject. Usually he liked to repeat his name a few times both so that the ladies would not forget it and because it just sounded so nice. But he just couldn't, and he didn't want to think about why. "So… these suns, huh? Wanna tell me why you're so interested in them?"

She shrugged, making another, smaller sun out of nuts. "I'll tell you, if you tell me what you stole to put you in prison."

He was surprised she didn't already know. "Deal."

Without any aplomb she said "I used to think I was the Princess of Corona."

It was silly, really. But it only struck Flynn as sad, this girl in front of him, thinking she was a princess. "Corona hasn't had a monarch in a couple hundred years."

"Yeah well, I was wrong." She closed in on herself even more, pushing the nuts into a big pile. She didn't say anything for a long time, so maybe Flynn could have shirked his end of the deal, but her extreme slouch was messing with gravity and pulling him in. He had to lighten the mood.

"Well, Princess, I was thrown in jail for attempting to steal your crown."

"Don't call me princess," she mumbled, draining the last of her drink dramatically, as if it really were alcohol and she needed it. She had no idea.

"Alright, Rapunzel – or do you not like that either?"

She shrugged. "I'm used to it, at least."

He pointed to her choppy dark hair. "Should we go for irony, since you were a princess and I stole the crown? How about Blondie?"

Flynn had seen a lot of people turn green in his bar before, but none so quickly, and none so dramatically. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and she shook a little as she climbed down from her stool. "No," she said softly. "Nothing like that. Here." She reached for her wallet, but Flynn waved her away.

"On the house. Are you okay?" He never gave away drinks. What was he doing? "Let me call you a cab, you don't look so good."

"I'm fine," she said with a wide, dimpled smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm going to go home. I think Dr. Jones was wrong, and I should hang out with you. I'm going to hang out with you again sometime. Bye." She turned and walked out, leaving Flynn waving a little in confusion. How did she come to those conclusions? He walked to the door to make sure she got to the subway steps alright, a terrible taste in his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

Dr. Jones wasn't even trying to hide her disapproval this time, her deep frown bringing out every little wrinkle on her face. She shouldn't be so judgmental. It aged her. "Flynn, really," she said, clicking her pen. "Do you actually think Rapunzel is an appropriate friend for you?"

"I didn't say she was my friend," Flynn repeated for at least the tenth time. "She's a customer. A regular. She comes by almost every night now." If he was honest, it was bad for his tips. He didn't feel right hitting on drunken ladies when Rapunzel was there making nut-art.

Jones shook her head. "In order to be a customer, she'd have to pay. But you just said you comp all her drinks."

There was that, too. It was coming out of his paycheck. He just couldn't take money from her. She was so skinny and sad looking all the time, and he remembered what it was like to be skinny and sad looking.

He shrugged. "So I do a little pro-bono work. I would think you'd be proud of me. It's a completely selfless act."

"You say that, but don't you think you're getting something out of it? Why else would you do this? You've never described yourself as particularly altruistic. And I'm telling you, Flynn. She is not wooing material for you. If you take her to bed with you, I will be on the phone with your parole officer faster than you can put out your cigarette."

He pushed the image aside as quickly as it entered his head. He wouldn't think about that. For once, he _couldn't_ think about that. Rapunzel did not need a lover. She needed soup and a blanket or something. Maybe a hug. Okay, the girl definitely needed a hug. But that's as far as it went. That didn't mean he couldn't get defensive about it. "She's eighteen."

"You've had this discussion with her already?"

"What? No. I checked her ID. I'm required by law to do so, you know."

She pursed her lips. "And your mind immediately jumped to the fact that she's legally allowed to have sex with you?"

"No, _your _mind jumped to that." He tried to hide his discomfort, picking at the arm of his chair. "You seem awfully concerned. Why? Does she talk about me a lot?"

Jones pressed her lips together in a thin line, eyes darkening. "You know I can't tell you what we talk about here."

"This seems like a conflict of interest. Maybe I should get a different shrink."

She barked a laugh. "I'm not letting either of you out of my sight. Listen to me carefully, Flynn. Rapunzel Smith has been through more than you could imagine. I'm trying to help her come to terms with herself and find a nurturing environment to heal in. She should not be hanging out in bars and she _certainly_ should not be hanging out in bars with _you_. If you care about her at all, you'll tell her to shoo next time she comes in."

_Rapunzel Smith_ sounded so strange to him. The oddness of it outweighed the rest of Jones's typical lecture. He'd gotten this lecture for years from the worried friends and relatives of various girls, and so far they'd been right - he'd made quick work of all the women they'd warned him not to touch. Maybe it was inevitable. He couldn't help it - he got bored and they got clingy and annoying and that was that. Maybe even with the best intentions he'd do something terrible to this poor girl. Was it possible for her to be _more_ damaged? It was difficult to imagine her with any more emotional bruises, as black and blue as she already was.

Jones let out a breath, closing her eyes and opening them again, slowly, putting her therapist face back on. The therapist face is an impartial face, an inquisitive face. Contrary to popular belief, therapists aren't really supposed to give you advice. They're just supposed to direct your bitching and then throw pills at you. Jones was straying beyond her station with this little rant. "Let's parse this out, shall we?" she said, adjusting her glasses. "Why are you so drawn to her?"

"I'm not," Flynn said quickly. "She was drawn to me. She came into my bar. She sat down. She babbles and plays with the snack food. I would think you'd understand - bartenders are practically therapists. We just go about our business and crazies flock to us. For an hour they think someone gives a shit about them, when no one actually does."

"You think she's crazy?"

"Isn't she?"

"You think no one 'gives a shit' about you?"

Oh please, how did this turn sob story? "No, I said that people come to the bar because they're lonely. I listen. I give them anti-depressants, like you, just in liquid form. They pretend I care, but I don't. I'm just taking their money."

Jones hummed, lips quirked at the corners. "But let's turn the tables, shall we? I'm the therapist here. Does that mean, as my client, you come here and for an hour a week and pretend someone cares what happens to you?"

"The analogy isn't perfect, okay?" Flynn shook his head, standing. Therapy was like running a gauntlet where the blows being thrown are your own words hurled back at you. "You wasted another hour, doctor. We didn't talk about my theft once today."

She rose as well, moving to open the door for him. "The theft is a symptom, Flynn. We're trying to fix the disease."

Flynn huffed, angry only at himself for being ruffled. His greatest strength was that he kept his cool, and he was letting her get under his skin. "A disease? You think it's contagious? Is that why you don't want me to hang around with Rapunzel?"

"Do _you_ think it's contagious?"

Flynn took a second to notice that Rapunzel wasn't in the waiting room. He was a little disappointed, but clamped down on that annoying feeling immediately, striding over to the receptionist to get another appointment card.

"I changed her session day," Jones said simply, as if reading his mind. "Why do you find yourself looking for her?"

"You're like a little kid," Flynn snapped. "Why why why?" He snatched up the reminder card and stuffed it into his pocket. Along with a ceramic ladybug paperweight.

"Welcome to psychoanalysis."

* * *

><p>At the bar that night, Flynn gave Rapunzel a present. It wasn't all that fancy, but he bought it, and he didn't have much money, so he considered it kind of a big deal. He handed it to her in a paper bag, and from the way she completely lit up, it was obvious she considered it a big deal, too.<p>

"It's for _me_?" She said excitedly, eyes widening as she looked from the bag and back to him.

"Yeah," he said coolly. "I figured this could keep you busy. You're going through the bar snacks too quickly."

She reached inside and pulled out the enormous sketchbook and drawing pencils. He'd bought the biggest one he could find, given her preference for large surfaces, and had to ask the lady at the store about pencils since he hadn't the slightest clue what someone who knew how to draw drew with.

She swallowed, completely silent, running one hand over the textured cover, eyes following her hesitant finger tips.

He gave her a few moments to collect herself, but still she said nothing. She didn't even open it. He cleared his throat. "Uh... if it's not your thing, I can take it back. Do you need a certain kind of paper or something?"

"I've never had a sketchbook," she said simply. It wasn't pitiful or sheepish, it was just a statement. "Actually no one has ever given me a present at all. Thank you."

Suddenly Flynn was acutely aware that he had never _given _anyone a present. But there was a reason for his generosity. He wasn't going to ask why she never had a sketchbook, or where she learned to draw, or why she was so fascinated by big surfaces, even though he wanted to know the answers to all of those questions. The entire point of the gift was to soften the blow of his horrible rejection. "Listen," he said carefully. "Jones doesn't think you should be hanging around here. You told me that yourself last week. She might have a point."

She didn't look up from marveling over the cover of the sketchbook. But her ears pricked, and he knew that she heard him.

"A bar is probably not the best hang out for you, you know?" he continued. "Why don't you go out with your friends?"

She finally flipped open the cover and ran her hand over the first completely blank page. "What friends?" Again, completely neutral, completely factual. It was a little eerie, actually.

"You know, friends. People you share laughs with. People you bitch to. People you can trust. People you go do... whatever it is you do, with. Friends."

She brightened a little, finally looking up at him. "So, we're friends then, you and I."

He couldn't answer that kindly. Since when did he care about kindness? "What about Pascal?"

"Pascal's right here," she said cheerfully, glancing at her shoulder, then back at him with a smile. "So I guess I'm among friends." What _was _Pascal, that he fit on her shoulder?

"Rapunzel, look. I'm a little old for you, don't you think?" The words tasted bitter and acrid on his tongue. He wasn't too old for anyone or anything. He was young and gorgeous to a fault. But he did have a habit of burning through women like he burned through money, and he knew that if she stuck around, then sooner or later she'd be part of the wreckage, too.

She tilted her head curiously. "Too old for what?"

There was a twinkle in her eye, almost as if she knew, and a completely innocent twist to her lips, as if she had no idea whatsoever.

God, it was like therapy all over again. Everything's a fucking riddle. He sighed, grabbing a towel and drying glasses just to have something to do with his hands.

"If you don't want to be my friend," she said with a shrug, popping a pencil out of the box and laying it to the page. "Then you can just do your job and I'll sit here and draw. And you can not look at me and not speak to me and pretend I don't exist." She pulled the sketchbook to an angle where he couldn't see what she was drawing. Her eyes flicked up to his once, briefly, then back to the paper. "But I bet you won't."

He was a betting man, but he wasn't about to wager against her.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a warm day for March, so Dr. Jones had the window open. There was a wasp trying to get in, buzzing and hissing and slamming against the screen. It gave Flynn something to focus on when he didn't feel like staring back at Jones's impassive face.

"Flynn," she said gently. "I'd like to talk about your childhood again."

Flynn sighed, watching the wasp crawl over the metal screen, looking for a hole. "It's like I told you, I was an army brat. I was raised all over."

She hummed, scribbling something on her pad. "You never said, and in fact, I thought you'd hinted that your parents were diplomats, actually."

"Same difference."

She made a little sound, almost a snort, which made Flynn look back at her face. She was looking at him curiously, she almost seem pleased with herself. "You're not trying very hard with your fake identity today. Does that mean you're in a very good mood? Or a very bad one?"

"Fake? I'm the genuine article, Doc."

She stared at him for a very long time, her look a mix of fascination and pity that made Flynn return his full attention to the wasp.

"Did you see the column in the Daily?" she asked, as if she were asking about the weather.

"I don't read the paper," he said. "But I'm guessing it has _many_ columns."

"The one about St. Benoit's. About the abuse there."

He already said he hadn't read it, what more did she want? The clock was ticking on their session. If she wanted to use their time to shoot the breeze about current events, fine.

"It said," she continued, "that although the authorities were only made aware of claims of abuse recently, investigations and interviews at the orphanage indicate that these crimes have been committed for decades. That hundreds of children have been affected over the years."

"Color me shocked. Corona cops, slow on the uptake again? We have kind of a historical reputation for shitty law enforcement, you know."

She said nothing, reaching over to her desk for the day's paper and putting on her glasses. They were thin with thick red frames and somehow made her gaze even more scrutinizing. She cleared her throat to read aloud. "St. Benoit's, the nation's oldest home for male wards of the state, has long been clouded in suspicions for mistreatment of the young boys it houses. However, as no alumnus of the home nor current residents would speak to authorities about their experiences, Corona police have, until now, been unable to act against St. Benoit's administration."

"That's what happens when you mix church and state, I guess," Flynn drawled, tipping back in his chair. "What are government wards doing in a religious home for children anyway?"

Dr. Jones looked up. "Do you have a poor opinion of the clergy who run St. Benoit's?"

"I don't have an opinion about them."

"Are you sure?"

"No, you're right. I think they're crazy. Why would anyone choose a life of celibacy? Corona is full of beautiful women. Swearing off them seems a bigger sin to me than indulging in them."

"You're trying to change the subject to your sexual habits. Why don't you want to talk about St. Benoit's?"

"Are you really asking me why I'd rather talk about sex than some corrupt orphanage I have nothing to do with? I thought you were supposed to understand the human mind."

"Alright, _Flynn_, you tell me: what's going on in your romantic life?"

"Who said anything about romance?"

"Your sex life, then?"

Flynn looked back at the wasp. It was making a battering ram of itself now, flying away and then crashing back into the screen over and over. He found he didn't know what to say, which was a little embarrassing because he'd really set himself up, but he didn't have any zingers. He didn't want to talk about his childhood _or_ his adulthood.

Jones seemed to sense this. "That's fine," she said, almost gently. "What _do_ you want to talk about? Anything interesting happen this week?"

Flynn shrugged. Lots of interesting things had happened, but none that Jones would be pleased to hear about. He'd spent most evenings serving drinks and pretending not to watch Rapunzel fiddle with her new sketchbook. At first, it seemed to stress her out. She mumbled that she usually drew on walls and wasn't used to this size, even as big as the sketchbook was. He suggested that she draw something that was normally very very small, so that the space seemed big, which she thought was brilliant. The next four nights she drew the hairy leg of a beetle, the top of a wine cork, filament from a light bulb, and the very corner of Flynn's left eye, crinkled as if he were smiling. As she drew, a kind of content concentration stole her features. In those moments, she didn't seem lost or helpless at all. She was in control, and it was adorable and fascinating.

There was a long enough pause that Jones prompted him. "Rapunzel told me you told her you didn't want to be her friend."

This felt like playground mediation. "I thought you couldn't tell me what she told you in sessions?"

"It wasn't in session, it was in the waiting room. And anyway, I want to know what you think. Is that what you said?"

The wasp seemed to ram itself into the screen one time to many, or maybe just too hard, because it bounced off the screen like a pebble and fell straight to the ground. "No, I said I wasn't the right kind of friend for her, and she should look elsewhere. But now I think that she doesn't have any other friends, which is a bizarre. She's very sweet and funny, and she's cute. I'd think she'd have many friends."

Jones' expression turned dark, and Flynn cut in. "I said she was _cute_, Doc. You know what else is cute? A basset hound puppy. You going to report me for that?"

She ignored him, looking less stern at least. "Last week you said she was crazy."

"Cute people can be crazy. Just look at me - I'm the cutest person in the world and you think I'm certifiable. And we can be popular, too. Which is why I don't get why she has no friends."

"Why is it so hard to understand? Where are all of your friends, Flynn?"

Now she was just being mean. "Who needs 'em? Friends always want things from you, always want you to call back and spend time with them and expect you to behave in certain way. I prefer amiable acquaintances. Rapunzel, though, I think she could use some actual buddies. You should help her out with that."

Flynn saw the clock hit the hour, and stood. He preferred ending sessions rather than having them ended on him - it felt more like dumping someone and the other like being dumped. "Well, it's been swell. I'm going to go chain smoke and then help people get drunk all night."

Jones shook her head, but she called out to him when he reached the door. "You know, if you read the paper more, you might learn a thing or two about Rapunzel that I could never tell you."

Which was how Flynn ended up in the library that afternoon for the very first time in his life.

* * *

><p>And five minutes after he entered, Flynn left the library for the first time in his life, none the wiser.<p>

The thing was that if Rapunzel looked up all the clippings on him, she wouldn't come see him every night. She wouldn't talk with him. She wouldn't smile at him like she liked to be around him. It was because she had no idea who he was that they had any kind of interactions at all. Flynn didn't have opportunities for blank slates very often.

And if whatever happened to this girl was in the papers, she probably didn't get a chance to make her own impression on people very often, either. (In fact he was sure that was true, because she had so unpracticed an air it was clear she didn't get out much.) Maybe she hung around him _because_ he didn't know. Maybe it was a relief to her. He'd let her keep that.

Also looking her up would be admitting a kind of interest in her he didn't want to have. And that was any kind of interest at all.

That night, Rapunzel was sitting near the TV with a bunch of the regulars. Where Flynn had tried to be distant, these guys took to her quickly and she split her time between chatting with them at their table and drawing at the bar near Flynn.

They looked like the worst possible thugs ever, but they weren't so bad. Well, they _smelled_ really bad, but they wouldn't hurt her. Flynn had even opened the bar early for them once so they could have a poetry slam before the rest of the patrons showed up and they resumed their gruff personas.

Rapunzel had spent most of the evening at their table. The bar was pretty busy so Flynn hadn't really been supervising (the worst that had happened thus far was that one of them had let her taste his whiskey and she'd spilled the rest in her shock at its intensity.)

Around 1 am, the bar area had cleared somewhat and Rapunzel strode over, sketchbook in hand. She hopped up onto a stool and flipped it open, brandishing a new set of oil crayons, probably gifted to her by the thugs. They were always one-upping him. Not that he cared.

"Hey you," she said, slowly. Her voice was odd, like she was feeling the words on her tongue as she said them. In fact she was looking down her nose as if she could see them coming out of her mouth. "You, friend who is not actually a friend. I'm going to draw your other eye, now. Try not to move too much."

Then she looked at her crayons, eyes widening in a kind of awe. "I'm going to draw your eye," she repeated, though she made no move to do so. She didn't even lift her hands from her lap, so absorbed by the look of her crayons was she.

This was odd behavior even for Rapunzel. "Have you been drinking?" Flynn set down the glass he was drying and leaned over the bar to catch a whiff of her breath. He smelled grenadine, but that was all.

She smiled at him, the warm glow of it spreading over her face like a sunrise. "Nope."

"Have you had enough to eat today?" He slid the bar nuts over to her. They weren't exactly nutritious and people had been reaching their hands in the bowl all night, but there wasn't any other solid food in the bar.

She stared at him, smiling, for several long seconds before answering. "Before I came over here, I stopped at Freddy's Market down the street and ate a whole half a chicken. And some potatoes."

Alright that kind of appetite was a question for another day. "Have you been sleeping okay?"

She put her hands on the bar, running her palms over the wood. "I don't know. I don't sleep very much. I don't like to dream." She looked back at the crayons. "I'm going to draw your eye."

"You just said that." Flynn frowned. "What were you doing over there with those guys?"

She giggled a little, drumming her fingers on the counter. "Atilla did some baking and I ate one of his brownies."

Oh, hell. Flynn put on his mean face. "Atilla!" he barked. It wasn't hard to get the big man's attention - all of the thugs were watching the bar as if they knew very well what was going on. Atilla sauntered over. He was a big guy, and he always had the hood of his sweatshirt pulled so low no one could see his face.

"Have you been baking again?"

He shuffled his feet, slouching. "Don't say it so loud. It's not a hobby I admit to publicly."

"How much pot did you put in those brownies?"

The thug shrugged. "Just the usual amount. And I only gave her one. It's not a big deal, she's happy."

"She's happy _now_. You gave her a _whole brownie_? Look at her, she's like four feet tall and weighs ninety pounds. Why would you do that?"

Rapunzel was still grinning like a total dope, eyes glassy yet twinkling, which was eerie on her. "I'm four _eleven_ and I weight ninety-_five_ pounds."

Flynn rubbed the bridge of his nose. "An entire one of your brownies would get _me_ completely stoned. She's going to be high for hours."

Atilla raised his hands in surrender. " She took one bite and then gobbled the whole thing up. How was I supposed to know? I don't usually hang out with little things like her. I don't know what she can handle. Maybe she's old hat at this."

Rapunzel was swaying on her chair, very very slowly, leaning as far to one side as she could before saying "whooooooa" and slowly swinging back the other way, repeating indefinitely. Flynn took one look at her and then looked back at Atilla.

"Alright," Atilla said with a nod of his hood. "She's clearly not old hat at this. Now I know that. Won't happen again."

Flynn sighed. "No cupcakes either. Or doughnuts. _Or_ rhubarb turnovers. No more pot for Rapunzel, without asking me first." Wait, since when was he her caretaker? Why did he care, anyway? If she wanted to get stoned out of her mind, she should go right ahead and do it and he shouldn't be involved. He kept saying things he didn't mean. He didn't _think_ he meant. He just kept _saying things_.

Atilla slunk away, leaving Flynn watching Rapunzel stop her swaying with an oddly distressed look. "Is this what it feels like to be on the ocean?" she moaned, clutching the bar as if her world were spinning.

"It's what it feels like to eat one of Atilla's brownies," Flynn said, circling back behind the counter. He still had two hours left of his shift before he could take her somewhere safe to ride it out - and where was he going to take her, anyway? How did he get himself into this mess?

Luckily, she had a rather obsessive personality. He needed her to focus on something and not get into trouble and not throw up for the next two hours. "Here," he said, snapping his fingers to get her attention. He took out a couple of old corks and set to teaching her bartender slight-of-hand.

It was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Flynn got off work, he needed to hold Rapunzel's shoulders to get her to walk in a straight line. If he sat her down, she slumped over like a rag doll, and if he stood her up, she went skittering off like a wind-up toy. The only way to get them moving was to stand behind her and push her gently along with both hands.

"Alright, you stoner. Where do you live?"

She looked over her shoulder, her pupils slowly changing size in front of his eyes. "I don't... I don't want to go home."

"Well, I don't want to leave you to choke to death on your own vomit in the street, so home we go."

Her expression brightened. "Let's go to your house, then."

He kept pushing towards the subway. She usually went down there, so that was a step in the right direction. "I don't have a house."

"Your _place_. Let's go where you dwell." She held on to the L sound for a long time, changing the tone with the shape of her tongue.

"How do you know I don't live on the street?"

"You smell good. You must have some place where you shower and get dressed."

He didn't let himself like the thought that she liked the way he smelled. That was just weird. But also kind of cute. In a weird way. He also didn't let himself consider that she'd obviously been thinking about him, about where he lived and how he lived. Or admit to himself he'd wondered the same about her.

He sighed. "Look, I can't take you to my place. My parole officer comes sniffing around on Friday mornings. They're supposed to be surprise visits, but he can't sway outside of his routine or he'll piss himself."

She laughed, because apparently being stoned made her regress in age to the point where pee was funny again. "You don't want him to know we're friends?" She stopped to stare at a tree growing out of a break in the sidewalk, reaching out to run her fingers over the bark.

Flynn tried to keep pushing her but she'd planted her feet, and any harder would just make her topple over. "I don't want him to find a blazed young woman in my apartment when I'm not supposed to be around illegal substances, let alone girls who are drugged past the ability to legally consent."

She had her whole palms on the tree now, and then - yes - she hugged the thing, pressing her cheek against it. "Consent to what?" she murmured with a dreamy smile.

"Anything. Rapunzel, it's three AM. Stop that." Why did he bother? He'd been where she was, and there was no reasoning that could penetrate the haze. He was just going to have to go along with it and try not to let her wander into traffic.

She closed her eyes at the feel of the bark against her skin. "Well, I can't go home, either. I live in a..." She frowned. "Do you think trees can hear? Are we surrounded by eavesdroppers?"

"No. Where do you live?"

"But maybe they can. Maybe they can hear everything."

"Well they certainly can't talk, so they can't tell on you. Where do you live?"

"Um..." her brow wrinkled in thought, trying to remember. "Oh. I live in a boarding house uptown. The police stuck me there. There is a really stern lady who runs it. If she knew I ate a pot brownie, I'd be in big trouble."

Ugh. Once upon a time he had friends he could take her to, or various other hide-outs. But they were all people on police radar and thus all people he was forbidden to associate with. They were also people he wasn't keen on Rapunzel being around. He should just dump her at the boarding house and let the landlady deal with her and wash his hands of the whole thing.

But he knew the stuff Atilla used and things were not going to be all tree-hugging and skipping for long. The landlady wouldn't have any clue how to deal with it and Rapunzel would somehow end up more screwed up than she already was. And he was there at the bar while this happened, so it was kind of his fault.

Right.

Now he was in the business of convincing himself things _were _his responsibility, which was a shitty business, really. He sighed. "Come on, then," he said, tugging on the hood of her sweatshirt. "My place." He'd figure out how to deal with the captain somehow.

* * *

><p>He had studio over a bakery near the wharf. It wasn't exactly the nicest part of town, but it wasn't the worst, either. Rapunzel dragged her feet going up the stairs, turning frequently to smile at him and chatter. "It must be nice..." she trailed off, staring at the grain of the wood of the handrail.<p>

Flynn was already exhausted, and eager to at least get inside. "Keep marching. What must be nice?"

"Oh," she said absently, resuming her snail pace upwards. "Living so near the ocean. Do you hear the waves a lot?"

"No. Mostly people shouting on the docks. Here." He reached around her to open the door and she burst inside like it was full of treasure.

It wasn't full of anything, actually. He wasn't much of a decorator, and he didn't have the money for a lot of crap anyway. There was a stove and a fridge and a little bit of counter. There was a pretty ugly sofa that looked a little better for the sheet thrown over it, and nearby a TV that didn't have cable, but he didn't watch it so it didn't matter. He got it because he thought apartments should have TVs, and he'd never had an apartment before this one. There was a door to the bathroom.

Behind the couch was a ladder up to a little loft where his bed and his closet were. He had a pretty nice bed. He'd saved up for it because it was really the only thing required for entertaining.

The thought made him a little sick now, and he didn't know why.

"It's so tidy!" Rapunzel gushed, spinning around with her arms out like she was in a field of flowers.

He didn't point out that it was easy to keep it clean when there wasn't any stuff that could be clutter. But he supposed that was one positive aspect of his personality - he did keep himself and his things clean.

She stopped, holding onto the arm of the couch for support while she regained her balance. Finally, she smiled at him. "It smells like you in here."

Again with the smelling. "You have a very active nose."

She grinned. "I have an active everything!"

What does that even mean? He opened the fridge. She hadn't eaten anything for hours at this point, even if she did eat half a chicken at 7, and she probably had major stoner munchies. He didn't have much, but he got out some stuff. "Do you like scrambled eggs?'

She had taken off her sneakers and run towards the far end of the apartment. "Yes!" she exclaimed, running and sliding in her socks on the wood. "And I love that there are no rugs here!"

He shook his head, cracking a few eggs into his one pan and stirring them with a fork. It was the only thing he really knew how to cook, so he always had eggs.

For the next two hours or so, she gobbled plate after plate of eggs (it was the same plate, he only had one) and ran around the apartment like a kid at recess. Flynn mostly sat on the couch and tried to stay awake enough to watch her and make sure she didn't break her neck. Marijuana was usually a depressant, something that calmed people down. But if you ate enough of it, it just plain fucked you up. Your body just gets confused and pumps you full of nervous energy. And then it wears off in a big way. He'd done a few jobs after eating pot and they were messy affairs. He really shouldn't have done that.

Then, suddenly, she sat down next to him, her eyes wide, her limbs a little shaky. "I don't like hazelnuts," she said, her voice hollow and quiet.

Speaking of wearing off. He sat up, blinking himself more awake. "No? Why's that?"

"The lady I used to live with made me this... this soup with it. I hated it. But she kept insisting I loved it, like if she said it enough it would be true. She made it on my birthdays and when she wanted me to do something weird for her. I hate the smell. I hate chocolate with hazelnuts in it."

"Let me guess," Flynn said, "rotten step mother? She sounds like a bitch."

"No," Rapunzel said firmly. "She wasn't my step mother, she wasn't my mother. She was just... just this woman I used to live with."

"Foster mom?" he'd had a few of those. He didn't think of them fondly.

"No. She wanted to be my mom, but she wasn't. Or maybe not. I don't know what she really wanted."

"She adopted you?"

She turned to him, eyes set and angry. "She stole me. When I was a baby. Why would you do that? Why would you steal things?"

He looked away.

"I mean," she said, her voice sounding strained and far away. "_Things,_ I understand. Why would you steal a person? A _person_? I didn't even know I was a person until this year when I left."

He tried to keep the alarm from his face when he looked back at her. "What did you think?"

"I don't know, I guess I felt like I was one of her things. She had a lot of things. She brought me all kinds of stuff... craft things, and instruments and games and stuff. Sometimes I think she just did it to be mean, because she'd bring these games that needed 5 or 6 players to work, and it was only me and Pascal in the house. I tried playing all sides, but it didn't really work. Games like Clue, you know? They don't work if you know all sides. Sometimes she'd play with me but she hated to lose, and sometimes I'd win accidentally, like I'd just roll higher or I'd draw the right card, even if I tried to rig it. So I tried really hard not to play with her."

It was too bizarre for Flynn to fully understand, and it was almost 5 am, so he tried not to process the idea of Rapunzel alone in some house with her imaginary friend, some crazy woman, and a bunch of board games she couldn't play. He swallowed. "What would happen if she lost?"

She was staring straight ahead, slouched forward and glassy eyed. She said nothing. He didn't really want to know the answer, or maybe he already knew it and just didn't want to think about it, but he had a feeling she had to say it.

"Rapunzel?"

"Fynn," she moaned, clutching her stomach. "I don't feel really good."

He stood, reaching down to help her up and lead her over to the bathroom. "You ate something your body basically classifies as poison, so it's going to come back up."

"I thought drunk people throw up and high people just talk about philosophy."

"Oh yeah? Let's hear some philosophy, then." Anything to distract her. He had her sit on the edge of the tub and put up the toilet seat just in case.

"Um..." she was full on shivering now, the color completely gone from her face. "I think..."

Her eyes were brimming with tears - over her thoughts or over the feeling of her body betraying her, he didn't know. "I think that people are meant to be with... other people," she said between shuddering breaths. "I don't think we're supposed to be on our own. I think being around others is what makes us whole." Her tone was the wispy, dazed one of someone who was completely inebriated, and yet she made perfect sense to him. He hesitantly reached up a hand to rub her back, gently because she was so small and unstable. He could feel her shoulder blades even underneath her sweatshirt and the shirt under that and her skin. He could feel the slight curve of her spine.

"Flynn," she said, choking on tears now. "I think I'm not a whole person. I think there's something wrong with me that will never be right because I was alone for so long."

"No," he said, though he wasn't sure that was true. There _was _something wrong with her. Maybe wrong wasn't the word. There was something intensely different about her, and he couldn't imagine how it could be 'fixed.'

"If I'd have known years ago that if I only left I would have been friends with you, then I would have, I would have found a way out. I would have walked out. But I didn't know, I didn't know anything."

Flynn swallowed, holding back his discomfort. He didn't know what to do with that statement. He still wasn't even sure they were friends, and to know that she put so much stake in their relationship was intimidating at best. It was like she wanted him to go back in time and save her.

And part of him wished he could.

Flynn used the only logic that ever got him through rough times when booze and women weren't enough. "Well, you're free now, right? You can do whatever you want to do. You can go wherever you want to go."

She smiled slightly before a fit of coughing sputtered through her. Finally, she shook her head, gasping in breaths. "I don't always feel free. I... I can't stop thinking about it. I can't get that house out of my head. I feel like I can still smell it on my clothes. I can still hear her voice. I still..." she trailed off, tugging on the uneven ends of her hair and biting her lower lip.

"You're not there anymore," Flynn repeated firmly. "You're not -"

Then she pitched forward and unearthed 4 plates of scrambled eggs and heave after heave after heave of leafy brownie. Flynn never understood how those damn things never seemed to be digested, they just sat in your stomach fucking with you until you puked them back out.

He made a grab for her hair and murmured encouragement to her softly. That it was going to be over soon and she'd feel alright the next day. He found himself rubbing her back like he gave a crap how she felt, like he wanted her to feel better, and he found himself staring at his hand like it wasn't his. Had he ever held anyone's hair back before? There had certainly been a number of drunken women who stumbled from his bed to the bathroom. But he usually just pulled a pillow over his head at the sound of their retching, or went out onto the fire escape for a cigarette. Flynn Rider, kneeling on the tile floor of his bathroom, comforting someone. It must have been some weird homo sapien sapien instinct, because he'd never been taught. It wasn't like anyone had ever rubbed _his_ back.

Maybe forty-five minutes later, her vomiting had turned back into crying, and she slumped back against the bathroom wall. Flynn handed her a damp cloth and got up to get a glass of water.

She was holding her head in her hands when he returned, moaning a little under her breath.

"Dizzy?" he asked, kneeling again.

She nodded. At least she had stopped crying. "Have you ever noticed that the pattern of your tiles looks like little ducks?"

Flynn glanced down. It didn't look like ducks at all. He handed her the glass. "Here, drink a little, but not too much."

"It looks like ducks," she repeated. "Fat ones, and also skinny ones. Also there is a platypus." She pointed to nothing in particular, but with such conviction that Flynn had to check to make sure his tiles weren't different than he remembered them. They weren't. She was at the hallucinate and/or make shit up point of her journey with cannabis.

Her eyes kept closing a little and were slower to re-open. She continued to babble about ducks while he attempted to get her to her feet. With nothing in her stomach and a body confused as all hell, she wobbled a little and sunk against him. He sighed and turned, squatting down a little. "Get on my back," he said. He couldn't carry her up the ladder another way.

She put her hands on his shoulders and giggled a little. "I've never had a piggy-back. I've seen kids in the park give them, but I've never had them."

Even Flynn had had piggy-back rides before. He contained his sudden and inexplicable distress at this thought. "You just... uh... put your arms around my neck like that, and then kind of... hop up. I'll catch you."

She did as he said and he hooked his hands under her legs, hefting her up on his back. She was so light he had a mind to cook her more eggs, and he let himself dwell on different things he could feed her instead of the random fleeting thought that her thighs felt good around his hips.

Breakfast foods and stuff.

She kept talking about water fowl and laughing as he set the glass in the sink and made his way up to the loft and sat on the edge of the bed so she could get down.

But she didn't. She just sat there, pulling her legs tighter around him, moving her arms to hug around his chest, leaning her cheek against his back. He could feel her breathing against him, slowly, deliberately.

He opened his mouth to say something, to tell her to let go, to lie down and go to sleep, but he couldn't make himself do it. He just sat there.

"I can hear your heart beat," she whispered. "I've never felt a heartbeat like this before."

Flynn smirked, reflexively. "It's an especially awesome heartbeat, isn't it?"

He could feel her shrug. "I don't know. I mean I haven't ever heard another person's heartbeat. I've never touched another person like this."

What did that woman do to her all those years? Was she really _never_ allowed outside? Had she really never touched another person in any significant way?

"Flynn..." she murmured. "Would you... turn around?"

She loosened her hold on him and he glanced over his shoulder. She was looking up at him with wide, hopeful, sad eyes. It was clear what she wanted - for him to turn and hold her as well, to close his arms around her and pull her close to him, to feel her heart beat, too. Maybe she'd never been held in her entire life.

But Flynn was not the man for the job. He didn't know how to just _hold _women. The holding was always the precursor to something else. He didn't even know how to be friends with a woman. He'd barely had actual conversations with them when they were sober. Feeding her, holding her hair back, carrying her about, that he could do, he knew how to handle being stoned. But this was something different. This was about her loneliness and her longing for a kind of affection he wasn't capable of giving.

So he got up and pulled back the covers. Dawn was peeking over the horizon now, and he always hated being awake at dawn, though it happened more frequently than he cared to admit. "Come on, Sleepy," he said with a forced smile. "You need to rest. You'll feel like yourself again when you wake up."

Her disappointment and hurt at his avoidance was clear, but she crawled under the covers. Flynn went out on the fire escape to have a cigarette before he passed out on the couch.


	6. Chapter 6

"Fitzherbert? Fitzherbert! If you don't open the door right now I'm going to blow the lock off. Open up, scum."

Flynn blinked, rubbing sleep from his eyes and groaning at the crick in his neck. He was on the sofa, legs sprawled over one of its arms, mid-morning light spilling across his apartment. He let the captain keep on pounding away at the door while the previous evening filtered in through his memories.

He glanced up at the loft, and could just make out Rapunzel's puzzled expression. She was sitting straight up in bed like a curious meerkat, her choppy hair sticking out in all directions.

Flynn caught her eye and held a finger to his lips, then motioned for her to get back down. She did, quietly, slipping back under the covers until she wasn't visible from the ground floor. Maybe the captain would find her, in which case Flynn would exercise his way with words. But he wasn't going to borrow trouble if there was a chance she'd stay hidden.

Flynn combed his fingers through his hair and ran a hand over his stubbly face before sighing and sliding back the dead bolt, stepping out of the way as the captain barreled in.

He was a silly man, the captain. Always quick to remind Flynn not to be so smug, as it was the captain who caught Flynn with the crown, the captain who'd been tailing him for years and finally 'brought him to justice.' But it was hard to take the captain seriously when he refused to shave that odd, bristly mustache and probably spent more time polishing his shoes, cap, and badge than he spent eating and sleeping combined. Flynn was always surprised the captain didn't constantly click his heels.

"Do you know what day it is today, Fitzherbert?" The captain said menacingly, staring out from beneath the visor of his navy police hat.

Flynn yawned, scratching the back of his neck. "The first day of the weekend? Double happy hour on Fridays. You should swing by, Chief."

"_Today_," the captain bellowed, "Is the day I find your _stash!_"

Flynn refrained from making some pun about the captain's facial hair and lit up instead, just because he knew it pissed him off. "My porn?" Flynn asked between drags, making a big show of blowing out the smoke. "Why didn't you just ask? It's not exactly _hidden_."

"No!" The captain sputtered, waving a hand to clear the air in front of his face. "You disgust me, you know that? Not your masturbatory supplies, _Fitzherbert_. All of the items you've been stealing since you got out of jail. I know you've been thieving. You can't help it. It's your nature. You're like a dog that needs to piss on everything you see. Speaking of which..." he rummaged around a pouch at his belt and handed Flynn a cup. "You know the drill."

Flynn sighed, heading towards the bathroom.

"That better be a cup full of _your _piss," the captain hollered as Flynn closed the bathroom door. "If I find out you've been switching it out with an accomplice, it's back to Bleach Street with you."

Flynn did his parolee duty and then put the cap back on and washed his hands, strolling back towards the captain. "Here. It's clean. And I kept it warm, just for you."

The captain's lip curled as he stuffed it back in his pouch and started poking around under the cushions of the couch and checking between the window panes. "I got your weekly report from Dr. Jones," he grumbled. "She says you're not making much progress."

Flynn knocked some ash into a tray on the counter. "Progress towards what, exactly?"

"Towards admitting _who you are_. And why it is you do what you do. So maybe you'll stop."

"Maybe I'll stop being who I am? Or doing what I do?"

"Both."

Flynn smiled, leaning back against the counter. "You know, Officer, it's that kind of faith in me that really makes me feel like I can reform."

The captain had picked up one of Flynn's shoes and was feeling the toes for contraband. "It's not my job to have faith in you. It's my job to catch you when you inevitably screw up again. And you'll never reform. You don't have it in you. You might become somewhat of a lesser evil, however." He reached for the ladder.

"Ooh, captain, heading to bed? I didn't know you cared."

The captain snarled, "there's a reason you don't want me up there then, isn't there? That's where you're keeping your stash!"

"Yeah, I told you, it's under the bed. Most obvious place for porn ever. Help yourself."

The captain turned beet red, letting go of the ladder and marching towards the door. "You're foul, Fitzherbert. Foul. I don't have time for your shenanigans and insinuations this morning, anyway. Whatever it is you're hiding, I _will_ find it. But I will _not_ give you fodder for your mockery of the police force!" He left with a flourish and a slam of the door.

Flynn put out his cigarette before it burned his fingers, and they remained silent until they heard the captain's angry footsteps down the stairs and gone.

"I don't like the way he treated you," came Rapunzel's voice from the loft. She had risen, and was standing at the top of the ladder.

Flynn shrugged.

"He treated you like an animal and called you names. And he made you pee in a cup."

He had to smirk at her candidness. "Prison was a lot worse." At least he got to pee in privacy, now. "The captain doesn't really bother me."

She was just a little adorable, standing in front of him. She had massive bed head and the wrinkle of the pillow was imprinted on her cheek, her eyes puffy from sleep. "Why did he call you 'Fitzherbert?'" she asked.

Flynn set about straightening cushions and other things the captain had set askew. "It's just another word for 'bastard.' It's an insult."

One bonus of Rapunzel was that she was ignorant enough that he could say things like that with no further elaboration. Most of the time the fact that people could so easily manipulate her made him a little uncomfortable, but not at all when it came to this issue.

She frowned and rubbed her eyes. "Why is having no parents or unmarried parents a reason to pick on us? It's not our fault."

"Who said I didn't have parents?" he drawled, checking the fridge. He still had a strange desire to feed her, and something told him she wouldn't want more scrambled eggs any time soon.

She almost looked disappointed. "Oh," she said. "I guess just me, then."

"I guess so. Who's picking on you about it?" They wouldn't be for long, if Flynn knew them.

She mumbled something, heading towards the bathroom. "I don't have time to go home before work. Can I shower here?"

Flynn squinted for a second. Acknowledging that Rapunzel showered meant acknowledging that she was sometimes nude. And if she was nude, then she was a grown woman and not some strange, fae-like misfit who drew pictures of his eyes and fell asleep in his bed. There was no sane way to put that into words, so he just said "sure."

When he heard the water turn on, he left the apartment. Listening to her being nude was just too confusing. So he went down to the bakery and got some bagels for breakfast. He had some leftover cream cheese from the last lady he'd tried to impress with morning baked goods. Not that he was trying to impress Rapunzel. He just didn't want her to go to work hungry. And she was too skinny to begin with. He had to fatten her up so next time she ate a drugged pastry it didn't affect her so much.

He laid out everything and made some coffee by the time she got out, dressed in her same clothes but smelling like his soap. Now he was the one with the overactive nose. It made him feel a little possessive in a way he didn't like.

"I love bagels!" she said with a grin, pushing her damp hair behind her ears and reaching for the cream cheese.

He found that he wasn't hungry. He lit another cigarette and watched her eat. She ate like he suspected a starving jackal would eat, in enormous mouthfuls, puffing her cheeks out like a squirrel. At times it almost sounded like she was making the 'nom nom nom' sound. He was transfixed.

She ate three bagels, both sides, and the rest of the cream cheese. Then she drank a big mug of coffee (it was his only mug, and it said 'wicked sexy' on it), though she stopped every now and then to make a face at the bitterness. He didn't have any cream or sugar.

Finally, she set down the empty mug next to her empty plate and looked at him speculatively. "Flynn, that's your third cigarette this morning."

"Second."

"Third," she said, pointing to the ash tray. "You must have had one when you went out and not even realize it. You've only been awake for forty-five minutes."

He smiled, putting the dishes in the sink. "No time to waste."

Her eyes turned round and solemn. "If there are twenty cigarettes in a pack and you smoke four an hour and are awake... let's say sixteen hours a day, that's over three packs a day. You could die," she said. It wasn't in the nagging, grating way he heard it from doctors or officers. It was just a completely sober statement dripping with gravitas. She clearly wanted him to take her seriously, but he couldn't. She looked like a slightly worried owl. The number of cute animal comparisons he'd already made that morning disturbed him.

"If I live long enough to die of lung cancer, I'll be amazed."

Now a slightly depressed owl. "Flynn, don't say that. You should live a really long time. And not die."

"Well thanks, I'll take that as a compliment."

She frowned. "You don't care?"

"Not really."

"Not even about your breath? Doesn't smoking give you bad breath? Doesn't that bother you when you kiss people?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Tell you what, I'll chew on some parsley before I lay one on ya, okay?"

She furrowed her brow. "'lay one on...'"

"Kiss you."

She gasped, looking down at her sneakers as the faintest blush tinted her cheeks. It would have been cute if it hadn't alarmed him. She thought he was serious.

"No," he said quickly. "That was a joke. I'm not actually going to kiss you."

"Oh," she said, swallowing. "Oh, okay." Her disappointment was obvious. As obvious as it was the night before when he wouldn't hold her. What did she expect from him? What did she expect from relationships? Did she think this was any kind of relationship besides the kind where you hang out in bars without drinking and hang out in bed without touching?

She smiled, but it was very forced. "Thanks for breakfast," she said, and her thanks at least were sincere. "Thanks for... everything. I owe you." She put up her hood to cover her hair from the chilly March morning air and headed for the door. "Well, I gotta go to work."

"Where do you work?" he asked, before she could escape, before he could decide if he even cared what she did.

"Uptown."

"Doing what?"

She shrugged. "Stuff."

"Aren't we enigmatic?"

He thought she'd joke back, but she just looked a little down. "I just don't like my job," she said, closing the door behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

"Your parole officer let me know he stopped by your place last Friday."

Flynn yawned. "He stops by every Friday. You should let _him _know he'll have more luck surprising me if he changes things up a bit."

Dr. Jones smiled, recrossing her legs. "He said it seemed like you really didn't want him to go up into your loft. He thinks you're hiding something up there."

"My porn, like I told him." _Not _a girl.

"Just that? He said you resorted to crass accusations to distract him from his search."

"When do I _not _resort to crass accusations with the captain? He wants there to be something secret in the loft or else his job spying on me has no meaning, and since his life revolves around spying on me, that's a hefty existential crisis, right there."

"Oh?" said Dr. Jones. "That's quite an analysis. Maybe you should be sitting in my chair."

"Maybe. Then I'd have written myself a prescription a long time ago and been done with this entire charade."

She sat up a little straighter. "You think you should be on medication?"

Flynn leaned back in his chair, perfectly aware that the angle at which he was sitting made him look particularly delectable. His shirt was kind of tight and reclining this way really showed off his torso. "I know you do. You think I'm delusional. You should just put me on anti-psychotics and call it a day."

She scribbled on her pad for a bit before looking at him very seriously, straight in the eye, her gaze not straying over his body even once. "If you know anything about anti-psychotics then you know they are prescribed for, among other purposes, people who are _diagnosed _with delusional disorder, and for that you must meet certain criteria, most of which you do not."

Flynn snorted. "Really? Every week you make a big deal about how you think I'm lying about everything, you think I'm not who I say I am, that I'm making up some identity for myself, that I made up my own parents and my history and my _raison d'être. _So just drug me, Doc, I'm sick of this."

She was silent for a moment, and Flynn had the distinct feeling that her pause was only for his benefit. "The difference,' she said, "is that people with delusional disorder _actually believe _the stories they make up about themselves and their situation. But you don't believe a word that comes out of your mouth, do you, Flynn?"

Flynn looked away first, his gaze dropping to his shoe laces, then back up to the bookshelf behind her head, because looking down would make him look cornered, or ashamed, and he wasn't either of those things.

She sighed, standing. "Why don't you think about that this week. Consider it your homework. Next week we can talk about what you find."

Damn, she called time first. He was being dumped again. It made his palms sweat. It made his fingers twitch a little. It made him linger by her desk while she walked to the door and swipe her fountain pen, stuffing it in his back pocket before she even turned back.

She gestured him out. "Have a nice week, _Flynn Rider_."

* * *

><p>That night, Rapunzel had a pad of paper and a mechanical pencil, and she seemed to be making a list of some kind. Except every time she wrote down a couple of items, she scratched them out again, and every time Flynn got close enough to take a peek, she covered the paper with her hands, leaning forward to sip from the loopy straw in her Shirley Temple.<p>

She sat at the bar mostly since her run in with the brownie, not trusting anything the thugs gave her, and too weak willed to resist sweets all the same. She looked lonely sitting at the bar by herself, but Flynn couldn't chat her up all night since he had a lot of customers to attend to.

At one point, she asked him for a pair of scissors, which he gave her from the back office, thinking she had some kind of origami in mind. But when the bar finally cleared out a little, he found her... trimming her hair.

"Uh... Rapunzel?" he asked slowly, not wanting to surprise her and make her slip with the blades so close to her neck. She was snipping erratically, cutting a quarter inch here and an eighth there. "What are you doing?"

"It keeps _growing_," she whined, taking a jagged chunk off the side. "No matter what I do, it just keeps growing."

Flynn narrowed his eyes. "Yeah... hair does that. Is that a problem?"

"I _hate_ that it grows," she said vehemently. "I never want it to grow again."

He slowly reached out to still her hand, gently taking the scissors from her. She didn't fight him, letting her arms fall limp against her sides, slumping a little on her stool.

"I don't want you to get too carried away there and regret it. Why don't you go let someone cut it for you?"

She looked really upset at the very idea, shrinking away from him. "I don't like when other people touch my hair."

"Why? What do you think they'll do?"

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, as if she wanted to say something but couldn't manage to choke it out, and finally she just said "I just don't like it."

He raised an eyebrow, a sinking protectiveness steeling along his spine. "Does this have something to do with that lady you lived with?"

She looked down, picking at the ends of her sleeves. "Everything has to do with her."

Flynn didn't know what to say. Despite how he'd sassed Dr. Jones, he wasn't a therapist and he hadn't the slightest idea how to be. Flynn didn't know what Rapunzel's upbringing was like aside from the fact that it was warped and it left her obviously afflicted. But Flynn didn't have much of a high ground himself in that arena, so what was he supposed to say?

Her little notepad, now uncovered, caught his eye. He picked it up to her protests and scanned the list. 'My eyes,' it said, crossed out. And then 'my laugh' and then 'my drawings' and finally 'my hair,' all crossed out, the last most passionately.

"What's this about?" he asked, taking in Rapunzel's blush as she reached for the pad. When was sure there was no more, he gave it back.

"It's just this thing Dr. Jones asked me to do," she mumbled. "It's hard."

"She asked you to...?"

She tucked the pad into the front pocket of her sweatshirt, huddling down into the collar. "She told me to make a list of things I like about myself. She said I don't focus on that enough, and I should."

Flynn swallowed. How sad was that? And then all that crossing out? Maybe Dr. Jones was right, maybe she did need the practice thinking well of herself.

Rapunzel looked briefly at her shoulder. "Pascal gave me some ideas, but he's just being nice. I don't like any of those things."

"No?" Flynn asked, trying not to stare at the empty space on her shoulder. "Well we already established you don't like that your hair grows. What... uh... what does _Pascal_ like about it?"

She frowned. "He just slipped up. He was thinking about how my hair _used_ to be. It's not that way anymore."

"What was it like?"

"It was... unusual. I had really unusual hair. Now I have normal hair."

Kind of. If normal was dark locks that were constantly cut down before they could grow out properly.

"What about your drawings? Those are great. Pascal's definitely onto something with those."

She smiled a little, just barely, only at the corners, but he could see it creeping in. "Do you think so?"

"Of course I do," Flynn said, tapping the sketchbook that sat beside her. "I've had both of my eyes immortalized thanks to you. It's an honor I didn't think I'd ever have."

She giggled, and he couldn't help but smile a little himself. "And there's that laugh," he said. "Pascal's a wise..." a wise what? "What _is_ Pascal, if you don't mind my asking?"

She perked up. "He's a chameleon," she said, proudly.

Ah-_ha_. "So _that_ is why I can't see him then, eh? He can change colors? He can change invisible?"

She looked at her shoulder, then back at him concerned. "Pascal is bright yellow right now..."

Oh. Ah. Not that chameleons could turn invisible, but at least it would have been a good story. "So he is!" Flynn said quickly, not knowing what to do but play along. "Wow, look at that shade of yellow. Pascal, how _do_ you do it?"

"He eats lemons."

"It was a rhetorical question."

"Oh."

"_Anyway_," Flynn said. "You have such a cute laugh, did you hear that? How can you not like that laugh?"

She smiled a little more now, starting to look a little hopeful. "You like my laugh?"

And suddenly, Flynn was struck by the reality of his situation. He was standing, fresh out of jail, in a crappy job at a crappy bar, flirting... yes, flirting with a girl who was far too young for him and _far_ too crazy for him, pretending he could see her talking pet chameleon just so he wouldn't hurt her feelings, and he should say 'no.' He should say no, and walk away, and let her go on her merry crazy way, and get meds from Jones he could pawn off to some bums on the streets and get the fuck out of Corona. That's what he should do.

"Yeah," he said, really quietly, really softly. "Yeah, I do."

She looked so touched, like she'd melt right off her stool. "And my eyes?"

Looking at her eyes was like looking at the sun - you stare one second too long and you can't see anything else afterwards, the shape burned into your vision. Hell, it could blind you. Her eyes creeped him right the hell out.

"They're good eyes," he said.

She blushed again, biting her lip and looking down. After a moment, she took out her pad and turned to a fresh page. She rewrote "my eyes, my laugh, my drawings" and didn't cross them out, but she didn't write her hair.

"Hey," he said. "One of the regulars here works at a salon down the street. She's really nice. Why don't we go by tomorrow and see about getting you a haircut?"

She recoiled again, her brow furrowing. "I don't know... I really... I really don't like anyone touching my hair."

"Well I really don't like getting up before noon, but I'll meet you there at ten if you want."

"You'll go with me?"

"Sure." No no _no_! What is this? What kind of idiotic idea is that? That's not even a date. That's not even anything. Who takes a girl to a _hair dresser?_ What message is that sending?

She bit her lip some more. "Will you be angry if I can't go through with it?"

He shook his head. "Nah. We can sit out on the curb and I'll watch you snip at it with some scissors until you're satisfied."

They were the creepiest friends on the planet.

But she seemed to think it was a fantastic idea. "Okay!" she beamed. "I'll see you tomorrow!"

* * *

><p>The salon went way better than expected, at least at first. The owner had a teeny tiny (humongous) crush on Flynn and agreed to squeeze Rapunzel in for an appointment at Flynn's behest (and a kiss IOU).<p>

Rapunzel seemed delighted by the process - and it became shockingly obvious to Flynn that she had _never_ had her hair cut before. The picture of her childhood was slowly filling in for him and freaking him out a little more with each new thing he discovered.

She loved the big cover they wrapped around her and the gauze they tied around her neck to keep the hair off. She flinched at first when the stylist, Amy, touched her hair, but eased into it when it was clear that Amy only meant business, spritzing it with water and combing it out before getting right to work with the scissors.

Rapunzel liked that part. She looked positively euphoric, closing her eyes and visibly basking in the feeling of her hair getting shorter, listening to the snip of the scissors and the soft sound of the wet hair falling on the floor and on her cover.

When Amy had cut and shaped to her satisfaction, she declared that she had a fantastic idea, and slipped into the back room.

"Looking good!" Flynn said, smiling at Rapunzel in the mirror. Her hair looked pretty much the same, except much more evenly cut, with a nice clean line from the back of her neck to her chin. She looked more confident, too. She looked pleased with herself. It made Flynn's insides clench a little. He didn't want to like it.

Amy came back with a big bowl she was stirring, the smell of bleach strong on the air. "How about some highlights?"

Rapunzel turned the starkest shade of white Flynn had yet seen on her, and that was saying something as the amount of colors Rapunzel had turned in his presence might classify _her_ as a chameleon. Her eyes got so big he thought they might roll right out of their sockets and she pressed back in the chair.

"No no no no," she said hurriedly, shaking her head. 

"Aw, live a little!" Amy laughed. "Just some subtle blonde highlights, eh? To bring out your natural color? It'll be so cute!" She lifted the brush she was stirring with, the chemicals dripping back into the bowl.

Rapunzel's nostrils flared, and by now Flynn more than recognized impending illness on her face. "No, _please_."

Flynn couldn't listen to her say _please_ like that, and he tried to intercept. "I think she looks great, let's leave it at that for today. Maybe next time -"

Amy pouted. "But-"

Rapunzel got another whiff of the bleach and immediately stood, tearing off the cover and the gauze and running straight out of the salon. Flynn didn't bother apologizing to Amy, he just chased after Rapunzel, who had stopped about a block away. She wasn't sick, but she was leaning against the wall of a shop, holding her stomach and breathing in slowly through her nose, her eyes squeezed closed.

Flynn just stood by her for several minutes, letting her catch her breath, unsure of what to say, as always. Finally, he said half-heartedly, "Bleach kind of wreaks, doesn't it?"

She slowly opened her eyes, her expression so mournful and ashamed he almost gave her a big hug, right there on the sidewalk. Almost. "I'm sorry," she croaked. "I'm sorry. It was so nice of you to take me there, and Amy was so nice. I just... I just can't..."

"Something about that unusual hair of yours?"

She nodded feebly.

Flynn said, "Isn't it weird how smells bring back memories so clearly?"

Her shame turned to guarded curiosity, and he found himself talking. Not because he wanted to share, but because the more he talked, the less she curled in on herself, the less far away from him she felt.

"There was this one kind of laundry detergent that they always used in the boys' dormitory when I was a kid. The sheets were all white, all the same on every bed, like a hospital. It didn't smell_ bad_, it just... it just had a distinct smell. There were maybe thirty of us in the room I was in, and all night you could hear the other kids rolling over and snoring and crying, sometimes. I mean there were some young kids there, and most everybody there was there for a sad reason. It's not that it's such a horrible memory. I just... I don't really like to think about it. Whenever I pass someone who uses that laundry detergent, I can immediately smell it on their clothes. I hate it."

She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Dormitory?"

The words rolled out of his mouth like marbles. "Uh huh. In the orphanage."

She sniffed again, looking him over. "You said you had parents."

"I say a lot of things."

She frowned, and it was obvious she was wondering what things he'd said that were true and what were not.

"But you know," he said, trying to sound encouraging. "I say a lot more things in general to you than I do to anyone else. Jones has been trying to get me to tell her about the orphanage for weeks. And then you just stand there and I tell you all of my forbidden back story."

She looked slightly appeased. She liked adventurous sounding things. "I doubt that's all of it."

"How about another trade? Wanna tell me what bleach makes you think of?"

She sighed, running a hand through her new haircut. "Um... I don't know. I guess it's like you said. Maybe it won't sound that horrible. Maybe it's not that horrible. It's just something that bothers me to think about."

"I get it."

"Well... you know that lady I lived with... she... she had this thing about my hair. This kind of... Dr. Jones said she was obsessed with my hair. It was an obsession. Dr. Jones said she was 'seriously ill.'"

"I'll say."

"Yeah, so... well, she never let me cut it."

"Never?"

Rapunzel shook her head slowly, clearly gauging Flynn's reaction. "Never. It was... _really long_. I never cut it, from when I was a baby to when I turned eighteen. She tried every single thing on me she could find that guaranteed faster hair growth - syrums and combs and pills and shampoos and goopy things and exercises, you name it. Some of them actually worked. It was... really long."

Flynn tried to picture how long it must be. And he tried to conceal any freaking out that he may have experienced at the thought.

"She also liked my hair to be blond. _Really_ blond. She said that princesses have blond hair. So she dyed it _constantly_. It didn't matter that she'd just done it. She always said she could see the roots or that the color was fading when it wasn't, when that's not even how bleach _works_. She mixed the bleach herself and it was so strong it burned and itched, and it would take hours, and she'd make me sit still and sing the whole time she did it. Two or three times a week she'd do this. She'd start mixing it in the bathroom and I'd smell it and I'd try to distract her, or seem busy with something else, but she just got so focused about it... I don't know. Maybe it doesn't sound that bad? But I really hated it. I really..." she tugged on the ends of her short brown hair. "I just never want to have anything to do with it again."

It sounded bad enough. It sounded disgusting, really. Seriously ill was an understatement. How do you even respond to that? So she was raised by a crazy woman who was obsessed with her hair. So she was emotionally abused and, it seemed, constantly locked up. So she was so lonely she invented animal friends to keep her company. All he could do was focus on the way she was now. And the way he was now.

Flynn leaned against the wall beside her, tilting his face towards her conspiratorially, so close he could feel her breath on his cheek. "Well you know," he said slyly. "I've always had a thing for brunettes."

He expected her to blush and look away, or laugh and sigh, but she didn't. She met his eyes, a sly smile of her own curving up at one corner of her mouth. "What if I told you I have a thing for orphan ex-con bartenders? What then?"

Flynn couldn't contain his surprise, and _then_ she smiled and giggled, twirling away from him running off down the street. "Gotta go to work!" She called over her shoulder. "I'll see you later! Thanks for the haircut."

Flynn was left staring dumbly after her.


	8. Chapter 8

One night, Rapunzel didn't show up at the bar. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but Flynn was a little worried.

She'd come to the bar every night for weeks, their banter becoming more comfortable, and then more uncomfortable again as something started to grow between them. He looked forward to her appearance, even though it meant being slightly awkward for the rest of the night. He wanted to stare at her, but he didn't want her to catch him staring because it made her kind of smug. She used to hate being stared at, used cower down into her hood. Now when she caught him looking at her she smirked in such a self-satisfied way that he once caught himself thinking he'd like to kiss that smirk right off her face.

And that had been the end of that train of thought.

Usually, his taste in women was pretty typical. He liked the same women most guys liked, the difference was that he _had_ them whereas most guys could only look. Maybe that's why Rapunzel was getting under his skin now - he'd done the whole tall, curvy, feline model thing. Rapunzel was different. Humans crave variety right?

But still, she was _different_ in that she was eighteen and everything that came with being eighteen. She was all wide eyes and willowy body and lopsided grins. She was too young. She was too new. If he laid a hand on her, he'd probably break her. Physically and emotionally. She just wasn't the kind of girl he could touch.

Which was really a shame for her because he was rather good at touching and she obviously needed some affection.

He just couldn't go there. They should just stay strange friends. He'd missed the exact moment he had accepted that they were even that much.

Flynn tried to think back to when he was eighteen. He'd been running from orphanages and foster homes for ages, but it was still bizarre when his eighteenth birthday came and they stopped trying to catch him. One day, he was hiding from the law like a dog running from the pound, and the next, they didn't give a shit. He was a free man. Finally a man, and finally free. It was weird how the sun rising that day changed his identity completely.

He'd been with some older women when he was eighteen... a few of them quite a bit older than twenty-six. But it was different with guys, wasn't it? And his brand of eighteen was a peculiar one, having lived mostly on his own for years.

To be fair, her brand of eighteen was a lot more than peculiar. She wasn't really eighteen. She'd never really be eighteen. She was so much younger and so much older at the same time.

She should find some nice guy her own age. Some nice eighteen year old guy. Some shy, bumbling idiot to fumble around with. That would be great for her. Really, it was what she needed.

As for what Flynn needed, and why he kept finding himself looking to Rapunzel for whatever it was - that was beyond his contemplation. He didn't have needs. They were not even on the table.

Neither was thinking about how her breath felt on his neck, or how he had felt her heart beat, too, against his back, that night she'd stayed over. Hell no.

But the awkwardness and the undeniable stress these thoughts caused him (and he didn't often get stressed, as a rule) didn't stop him from looking forward to seeing her. His night still got better when she walked in. She'd sketch or play with the bar nuts (how was she not bored of those things yet?) and they'd talk about totally random things when bar traffic was quiet. She was obsessed with reading - she always had the maximum number of books out from the library, and she liked to regale him with her favorite parts. She even got him talking sometimes - he'd actually read a lot as a kid, and a lot more in prison. He liked to tell her stories, even ones he didn't find particularly interesting, because her eyes would sparkle in this certain way and she'd clasp her hands together in front of her and scooch forward on her stool, like he was the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen, and his words were the most amazing she'd ever heard. She was good for his ego.

When he thought about it, they had lengthy conversations every night for hours and hours, and this had been going on for weeks. She probably knew more about him than anyone else. She was probably closer to him than anyone had ever been in his entire life.

Not that they were particularly close, or anything like that. Really, so she knew what snacks he liked in the middle of the night and what movies made him laugh the most when he was a kid. So what?

So he was worried when she didn't show up, that's what. He was worried about another person. About someone other than himself. It was like there was a really angry rodent clawing at the inside of his chest. He kept watching the door, kept checking the clock. He took two breaks without any sign of her - he hadn't taken a break alone in weeks. She always followed him up onto the roof, chiding him about smoking even as she continued to marvel at his 'tricks.'

Three A.M. came with no sign of her, and his shift ended. She probably got caught up in her novel and passed out early. Or maybe she went to go eat an entire chicken at Freddy's again and ended up eating four instead and was in a food coma. Or maybe she'd seen a funny shaped rock on her way to the bar and was sitting on a bench somewhere studying it with the absurd focus only she had.

As he walked home from the bar, his phone rang - a local number he didn't recognize. Not the captain - he always checked in on the same day at the same time, from the same number. It could be any of a million girls who had his number. He didn't usually answer - if he felt like spending time with a woman, he'd call her, and otherwise he didn't want to hear from her. Especially at 3 A.M., which was inevitably some drunken clingy sob story.

Still, curiosity got the better of him and he answered with a neutral "hello?"

There was a sniffle on the other end of the line, and then "Flynn?" Rapunzel's voice.

"Hey," he said, wincing at the concern in his voice. It was an unnatural sound. "You okay?"

More sniffling. "N-no," she said, wavering on the edge of tears. "I'm in t-trouble. Will you come get me?"

Flynn stopped walking, instantly anxious. "What kind of trouble? Where are you?"

"I'm in jail," she said pitifully. "I've been arrested."

Flynn almost laughed, and would have if she didn't sound so upset. What was _Rapunzel_ doing in jail? "What did you do? No, never mind, don't tell me on the phone. What jail are you in?" He'd been to them all. Many times.

"I don't know what it's called," she said, misery soaking through her words. "It's uptown near the big fountain and the dog park. I need someone to bail me out, and..."

"Don't worry about it, I know the one. Hang on, I'll come get you."

He hung up before she could blubber her thanks and headed down into the subway.

* * *

><p>Of all jails for Rapunzel to be trapped in, she chose the right one. Uptown didn't see a lot of crime, mostly privileged teens caught with booze or caught making out after hours in the park. Flynn stopped by an ATM and nearly cleaned out his account for the bail money. Even the ATMs were nice.<p>

He didn't recognize the officer on duty at the desk of the tiny jail. Luckily this wasn't the captain's precinct, or he'd get a really annoying lecture.

He had to fill out a lot of paperwork, and it gave him the creeps to sign his name on National Corrections documents, even if he was actually happy to be helping Rapunzel. The guard studied his signature for a minute before glancing up at Flynn suspiciously.

"What?" Flynn snapped.

The guard shrugged, nodding for his lackey to head back into the holding area and retrieve a sniffling, red-faced Rapunzel, who launched herself immediately into Flynn's arms.

It was really awkward at first. She was so small, pushing her face into his chest and taking big shuddering breaths as she babbled incomprehensibly, something about poor taste mixed with apologies. He just stood there for a few seconds, not sure what to do with his hands. Her arms snaked around his waist, holding him tightly, as if she could bind them together out of sheer strength of will.

He patted her head slightly with one hand, swallowing. He didn't really comfort people. He didn't know how. After a minute of this in which his patting began to match the rhythm of her hiccuped crying, she looked up at him like he was a really slow learner and reached up to pull his arms right around her, one around her waist, one around her shoulders, before retreating back into his shirt.

It felt... oddly natural, actually, and he adjusted his hold, pulling her in a little closer, tilting his head to nuzzle just slightly into her hair. She smelled like honeysuckle. Not like flowery shampoo, but like she'd literally been running through honeysuckle bushes. She probably had. Her heart beat frantically against his chest, like the wings of a caged bird, and her fingers balled into the back of his shirt. The muscles of his arms flexed involuntarily as she cried, like they'd waited to hold her longer than was right, like he'd done all of those pullups in prison for just this moment to shelter her. She curved against his body so easily, everything that was usually quick and agile about her now soft and yielding.

After a while a long, shuddering sigh rattled out of her tiny frame, and she slumped against his chest, totally spent.

It was almost impossible to let go of her , every instinct urging him to gather her up and then... and then what? Exactly?

He released her, stuffing his hands into his pockets hastily, ignoring the sudden chill of emptiness prickling along his skin where she'd been touching. "So, uh... let's get out of here."

She nodded, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, her nose red from crying. She followed him out of the jail, out onto the cool, clear night.

She paused for a moment, sucking in huge breaths of fresh air, shaking her head as if to clear it as she tugged on the ends of her hair. "Okay okay okay," she said under her breath, like a whisper. "It's okay."

"Of course it's okay," he said gently, placing an uncertain hand on her shoulder. "Everything is going to be fine. What happened?"

She groaned, tilting her head back in frustration as they started walking again. "I was decorating out by the old mill," she said, "When a police officer saw me and started shouting."

Flynn raised an eyebrow. Wasn't she just the sly one. "_Decorating?"_

She raised an eyebrow right back, pursing her lips. "Yeah. With spray paint. Whatever. It was still decorating. The old mill is kind of ugly. It looked better with some of my drawings on it."

"The officer disagreed?"

"He said it was illegal and vandalism and that I had to go with him. So I did. And he..." her sass faded back into distress. "He locked me up."

_Oh_.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She shook her head, though she started talking anyway. "It just... I don't like it when people lock doors. Or when I feel like I can't get out of somewhere. I just... I like knowing I can leave, if I want. You know? When he shut that big door and it clicked, I..." she trailed off, her frown carving deep worry lines into her face.

"I feel that way sometimes too," he said, though he didn't even like to admit it to himself. "They used to lock us into the dormitory at night. It wasn't like there was anything terrible in there, I just didn't like not being able to leave if I wanted to. Of course, that didn't stop me for long." He smiled, though bragging mode didn't last. "Prison locks are a little different, though. Never did manage to get out of there."

She looked at him with wide, scared eyes. "Is prison like jail?" Clearly, she thought jail was bad enough.

"Not really. The people are a lot worse and you stay a lot longer. I don't recommend it."

"Did you ever get to go outside?"

"Sometimes," Flynn said. "For a little while, we'd go out into the yard. There wasn't much to see out there, though. Not much room to do anything worth doing. Still, it was better than being _inside_."

She nodded, and he asked, without thinking, "did _you_ ever get to go outside?"

He wasn't talking about jail, and she knew it. She said nothing for a long time, just looking down at her feet, putting one in front of another as she walked. Finally, she looked up at him, her expression a sad mix of pain and shame.

"_Never?_" He meant to try to mask his incredulity, but he failed.

She shook her head.

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"You don't know why?"

She pulled her hood up, retreating into it, tucking her hands into her sleeves. "She said it was to protect me."

"Protect you from what?"

"Bad people," she said lamely, chewing her lip. "People who stole things, people who broke the law, dangerous people."

Flynn tried to lighten the mood. "People like me?"

But she wasn't amused, her expression anguished as she glanced at him from under her hood. "_Yeah_," she said, the word stressed and pushed from her throat like she was going to cry again. "People like you. She kept me imprisoned my whole life to protect me from funny, caring... _amazing_ people like you. To keep me from the danger of _living_ and _feeling_."

Flynn was a cocky guy, but it was still weird to hear her say such candidly positive things about him, and weirder still that the despair in her voice made him feel twitchy all over, anxious, unhappy. It wasn't fair that she had to say these things. It wasn't fair that she'd been locked up far longer than he had and for nothing she'd ever done, as far as he could tell. He wasn't a huge fan of Corona's legal system, but the fact remained that he'd committed a crime and he'd been punished for it. What crime had she committed, to earn a worse fate? What had she ever done to deserve the pain it brought her now? And would that pain ever go away?

He felt helpless, and he wanted to pull her close again but he didn't, because he didn't want to smother her, but also because he didn't want to want her, and holding her in that moment would be more for him than it would be for her, more to make him feel less useless, more to reassure him she was okay. He didn't want to care about whatever had happened to her. It was a tragedy he didn't have the stamina for. It was more fucked up than he cared to understand. He didn't have the capacity to help with the kind of baggage she was dragging along behind her.

"Do you know how I feel?" she asked hopelessly, gesturing idly at the air. "Everything I experience now isso wonderful. And it makes me _so angry_. Do you think about what you missed in prison?"

"No," he said quickly. No. He went in a smug, poor twenty-one year old and came out a smug, poor twenty-six year old and it made no difference. Five years behind bars did nothing to him. Nothing at all. He was the same guy he was before. He'd always be the same.

"I think you're lying," she said, meeting his eyes. "You lied to me when you said you had a family, when you don't. And you're lying now. You stole something from them, or you tried, and they stole something from you. Years, they took. And _she_..." her hands slipped from her sleeves, balling into fists. "She stole my life from me. And _I stole from her._"

Flynn swallowed at the intensity of her gaze, confused and a little alarmed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She frowned, suddenly reaching out a hand - right into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone in one fluid motion.

"Hey, what-"

She was typing away with her thumbs, and then handed his phone back with a smile, all traces of her anger and unhappiness gone, like a cloud that passed right overhead. "Now you have my number!" she declared. "I got yours, and now you have mine."

Flynn shook his head, dizzy from the mood switch. "What? Yeah, how _did_ you get my number?"

"Somebody wrote it on the wall of the cell," she said simply with a shrug.

"_WHAT?_"

"Somebody wrote 'for a good time, call Flynn Rider' with your number underneath. I thought it was fate, so I called you."

Ugh. Ugh. He could think of at least a dozen women he'd jilted who would do something like that. He better have his number changed.

She pointed to the door they stopped in front of. It was a fancy brownstone, three stories, all the lights out. "This is where I'm staying," she said. "I have a room here. Listen... I don't have the money for bail right now. I'm really sorry. But I work really hard, and I promise I'll pay you back really soon."

Flynn waved away her concern. "Whatever. I'll get it back as long as you don't skip town." He jutted his index finger against her collar bone, a weird excuse to touch her. "So don't skip town."

Some of her worry came back, her brow furrowing. "Do you think they will send me back to jail? Or prison?"

"Pfft, no. You'll have to admit to what you did and they'll make you pick up trash in the park or something for a day." Her eyes lit up. "...but you do that anyway, don't you?"

She bounced a little. "Sometimes! People leave the weirdest stuff!"

"Yeah, I don't want to know. Go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."


	9. Chapter 9

There were two numbers saved in Flynn's phone. He kept a little black book with the list of women he called when he felt like company. But he didn't like them being in his phone. Even that was more commitment than he wanted to make. They'd often playfully add themselves, and he'd laugh, but delete them once they wandered home.

There were only two survivors. There was Rapunzel, who'd taken his phone again at the bar the next day and snapped a photo of herself with a huge grin of excitement, so that whenever she texted him he got a flash of her looking overjoyed. And she texted him a lot.

_Flynn, I saw five squirrels today and one of them had spots!_

The other number was his parole officer, and that was the one he was currently ringing.

The captain picked up immediately. "Fitzherbert? Why are you calling me? It's Thursday. It's 11am. You should be on your way to therapy."

"Yeah..." Flynn said, pulling on his shoes. "See, that's why I'm calling you."

"Playing hooky, are you? I'll have to report this to the parole board. Your predicament is very precarious, might I remind you?"

Flynn rubbed the back of his neck, already tired of this conversation. "Not hooky, exactly. I've had a bit of a... change of heart? Shall we say? Look, chief, I was hoping I could switch therapists."

The captain snorted. "Never could see anything through, could you? Always looking for the easy path. Never willing to put the work in. No. Absolutely not. Jones is hard on you, as she should be."

"She's not hard on me," Flynn cut in. "Maybe that's the problem. I don't know. But honestly this has been a colossal waste of my time. And her time. And your time. We are just not operating on the same wave length. I think I might have better luck with someone else."

"Dr. Jones is a _very_ prestigious psychiatrist. She's published more books than you've read in your entire life. She's the best."

"You know, I'm sure she's great. For some people." Rapunzel seemed fond of her, actually. From what little Flynn could make out of their conversations, Jones was helping Rapunzel quite a bit. "But the shoe doesn't fit everyone, right?"

"You're just too short-sighted..."

"No, look," Flynn sighed. "You can pick the new therapist. You can send me to the biggest hard-ass you know. I don't care. I just want to try something different."

The captain was silent for a few moments. "Why this 'change of heart' _now_?" he spat skeptically.

And this was the part he didn't know he could say. Flynn thought it was the truth, but it sounded fake even in his head. _Thinking_ it felt fake. Even if it might have been the first authentic thought he'd had in quite some time.

"I..." Flynn cleared his throat. The words wouldn't come out of his mouth. They'd barely even form in his head. He couldn't think of a sarcastic way to say it, either. It was like he was choking. He tried clearing his throat again.

"_Rider_, I don't have time for you to yank my chain."

_Well, there's this girl..._

Flynn coughed. "I clearly have shit to deal with, that's all. I could use some...uh... help with that. Jones and I aren't getting anywhere. I think it would be good to try other avenues."

More silence. "Are you sassing me? Is that sincerity I detect from you?"

"Well, it's not sass. My sass is a bit sassier than that."

A grunt, and a long pause. "I'll pull some strings and get you in with someone else _today_. This is not going to be some way for you to get out of therapy this week. I'll text you the time and address. If you don't show up, there'll be consequences."

That was how Flynn ended up at a new office downtown. It was cool, and a little dimly lit. He sat across from his new shrink in a matching arm chair, like they were going to smoke cigars and talk about politics. The new guy was in his early thirties, maybe. He sat casually, and he had glasses but he just kind of left them where they were on his face, none of that constant pushing them up his on nose business.

"Walter called me," he said with a wry smile. "I don't usually take new clients on such short notice."

And Flynn didn't usually hear the captain's first name. Fodder for mocking. "Well, thanks, Dr...?"

"Just Tom's fine. And you prefer Flynn?"

"Yeah."

Tom didn't even have a pad or a pen. Flynn was already skeptical of this guy's credentials.

"Well, Flynn," Tom said. "What brings you here?" Tom was watching him neutrally, and waited a long time for Flynn to answer.

"I was released from prison about three months ago. Part of my parole is that I have to have therapy."

Tom nodded. "Alright. Want me to write a letter on your behalf then?"

"Huh?"

"If you just need routine therapy, I can easily sign off on your sanity."

Flynn raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have to evaluate me first, or something?"

"If you want."

"Does it matter what I want?"

Tom shrugged. "Look, I've worked with a lot of Walter's parolees. Therapy isn't something you can really do for someone else, even the state, even if your freedom depends on it. If the only reason you're here is to go through the motions, let's just save us both the grief and push you through. If you have stuff you_ want_ to work on, that's another story."

Flynn blinked. "Well... I mean, therapy's really expensive, right? And the state's paying for it. What do you charge?"

"250 crowns an hour."

"Yeesh. Not the first time I've thought I should be a shrink."

"I'm not complaining. You're right, you're getting a pretty good deal right now."

Flynn shrugged. "I like free stuff. Might as well stick it out."

Tom shook his head with a smile. "Nice try. But no. I'm busy. I have a lot of clients and a lot more on the waiting list. I'm not going to shoot the breeze with you for an hour a week so you can feel like a bargain hunter. Convince me you have something interesting to say."

Flynn forced his face into a look of cocky boredom, when he wanted to balk. "Haven't you read my file?"

"No."

Flynn squinted. "Why not?"

Tom's poker face was good, too. Maybe better than Flynn's. "Is there anything in there you can't tell me yourself?"

"I'm an ex-con," Flynn said. "Wouldn't you think I was lying?"

"What would be the point? Lying to your shrink? I can't help you if you do that. And if you're just trying to get through this, I already said, I'll sign off for you right now."

Flynn stared.

Tom looked at his watch. "I'm bored, Flynn. Tell me something about yourself. If you lie, I'll know. Tell me something real and interesting."

Flynn sat up a little straighter. "I... uh..." he immediately latched onto the most interesting thing in his life lately, and he started talking before he had a chance to think, before he had a chance to wonder where it even came from. "I think I'm kind of falling for this completely batshit girl who is way too young and broken for me, but I can't help it." Flynn's lip curled and he looked at his hands as if he'd see his own face there, as if they'd have some explanation for what he just said.

Tom grinned. "Ha! You seem to have surprised _yourself_ there. Nice. I'm interested. Go on."

Flynn felt simultaneously validated - because he'd never lose a contest, and he'd certainly never be called bored - and exposed. Falling? Where did that come from? What did that even mean? He stuttered. "I... she... you know, this isn't really something I talk about."

"But it's the first thing that popped into your head. She must be on your mind a lot."

"...yeah. You could say that."

"What's she like?"

"She's... well, she's way too young for me, to start, like I said -"

Tom held up a hand. "Is she legal?"

"Uh-huh."

"Alright, then let's leave morality out of this. Talking about shoulds is not helpful right now. Just tell me how things are."

Flynn picked at the arm of the chair, trying to think of how to describe Rapunzel without coloring her with the guilt he associated with her, or how inaccessible she felt to him. "She's... very bright. She seems slow sometimes, but that's only because she was really abused as a kid. I guess she grew up living with this crazy woman who wouldn't ever let her out of the house - _ever_ let her out of the house. So she didn't go to school or have any friends or anything like that. Everything in the entire world is novel to her. She can come off as a little... silly. But she's actually really smart. She learns so quickly, and she notices the tiniest details. Her brain works so fast... she loves puzzles and riddles and things like that. She's a lot smarter than I am."

"Intelligence appeals to you?"

Flynn shrugged. "I just haven't spent a lot of time with smart people before, really. It's different to be around her. She never bores me. She's very entertaining."

"You guys spend a lot of time together?"

Flynn nodded. "I work at a bar, and she comes by every night I work at the start of my shift and stays until the end. We talk a lot. She's really easy to talk to."

"What do you talk about?"

"Lots of stuff. Anything, really. She asks a lot of questions, she's very curious. She likes stories, she likes to hear about my life. Sometimes she'll tell me about her life but not too often, she'd usually rather tell me about things she has read or things she'd like to do."

"How long have you guys been friends?"

Flynn smirked at the seemingly innocuous question. "Well, we've known each other for about a month and a half now, but I don't know how long I'd say we've been 'friends.'"

"You don't like that word?"

"It's kind of a strong word."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Friend is a strong word?"

"For me, yes."

"Why's that?"

"It implies reliability, right? Like I have to be responsible for someone else. Like I have to answer to someone else. It's a restriction. People expect stuff from their friends. People need things from their friends." It was weird to spell it out like that. It was how he felt, it was what he thought, it was clear as day said like that, but it wasn't something he'd articulated before.

"And you don't want to be responsible for this girl? You don't want her to rely on you or need anything from you?"

"No, I don't!"

Tom made a really, _really_ annoying buzzer noise. Like he was on a terrible game show. "Try again. Take your time to think first, if you have to. But no lying."

"I'm not lying."

"Don't make me make that noise again, I hate that noise."

Flynn glared, breathing slowly. He didn't like that noise either. "How do you know if I'm lying? I've barely said a thing yet."

"Body language? Expression? Common sense? Listen to yourself when you talk about her. "

Flynn frowned, feeling very vulnerable indeed. Did he sound like a puppy? Did he seem pitiable? "Is it that bad?"

"No morality today, remember? It just is. You want this girl, don't you?"

He was choking again, on an enormous block of whiny angst. "I..."

"Spit it out."

"Yes."

"She already relies on you, it sounds like. She already needs things from you. Does that really bother you?"

Yes! Yes! It was terrible! It was terrible that she called him and asked for help. It was terrible that she needed his affection. It was terrible that she looked for his reassurance and guidance in conversation. It was terrible.

It wasn't terrible at all. Nothing about it was terrible. It was good. It was _so_ good.

The air in the room was thinner, maybe. He was choking again.

"So when we're talking about reliability," Tom said. "Is it really that you don't want her to rely on you? Or..."

"What do you want?" Flynn snapped. "You want me to say that I don't want to need some crazy eighteen year old nut case? That I don't want to lean on her? That I don't want to be tied to her in some way? Who _would_ want those things? Why should I trust her? Why should I need her? I'm Flynn fucking Rider. Who the hell is she?"

Tom leaned back in his chair, taking a breath. "You're Flynn Fucking Rider, eh?"

Flynn nodded, stiffly.

Tom was silent.

Flynn said, "You didn't make the buzzer sound."

Tom smirked. "Should I have?"


	10. Chapter 10

The thing about admitting something like attraction, even to yourself, is that once it's out, you just can't stuff it back in. Once you let yourself feel it, it just gets stronger, more persistent, more aggressive the more you try to tamp it down. Flynn knew this about emotions from hard personal experience, which is why he tried his best not to have any.

Letting one feeling out is like opening the door, opening the floodgate. Like a Pandora's box of angst. In Pandora's case, a shit show of horrors ran out into the world leaving humanity with only hope. For Flynn, it was a very similar shit show, except he was left with only awkwardness. A lot of it.

Rapunzel would come into the bar as if nothing had changed; sketching, telling stories, mumbling to Pascal. She'd started bringing snacks, which she shared with Flynn. They were always a little bizarre. Ginger bread men in late spring, with frosted scuba outfits on. A gallon of banana flavored ice cream. Star shaped slices of kiwi and a vat of whipped cream. She didn't live by the same culinary restraints as most people. She ate and swung her feet under the bar stool and was completely oblivious to his anguish.

And it _was_ anguish. He vacillated between emotions like a pregnant woman planning a wedding. He hated her. He hated how he watched the door for her to come in and the street corner after she left, and never deleted any of her stupid texts.

_Did you know that in Russia they put mayo on pizza? Let's do it._

And then he didn't hate her. Then he loved every fucking thing about her. He didn't love _her_, just things about her. Like how she blew her bangs out of her face when she was drawing. Or the strange, unexpected analogies she made. Or that she went out of her way to brush hands with him when he passed her a drink (it wasn't _his_ doing). Or the curve of her neck. Or the way she smelled, like honey suckle plucked straight from someone's garden and plopped right down in his bar. For him.

At those moments, it felt like the right thing to do, the _only_ thing to do, was lean across the bar and press his mouth to hers, feel her, and taste her, and enjoy every quirky, tragic, gorgeous breath she took.

That was when he took a cigarette break and told her not to follow him. It hurt her, but he had no choice. If they were alone together when he was feeling that way, he'd do more than kiss her. So he went off on his own and sucked down breath after breath of night air, tar, and nicotine instead.

"But why?" Tom asked, in session the following week. "Why fight it? It seems like what you both want."

Flynn sputtered, holding his hands out in exasperation. "She doesn't know what she wants. She can't even decide what color socks to wear in the morning. She's told me this. How it will sometimes take her half an hour to pick them out."

Tom shrugged. "She doesn't seem nearly so indecisive about you. She spends every night following you around. You _have _ to be there, because it's your job. She shows up just because she wants to. And you said before that she had some job during the day she dislikes, whatever it is. So when does this girl sleep? She seems pretty single-minded about you, if she works all day and sits at your bar all night."

Flynn had never thought about that.

And that pushed her from flaky to intense. _Too_ intense.

"Oh stop it," Tom scolded, rolling his eyes. "I see that look on your face, that skittish, nauseous look. You won't kiss her because she doesn't want you, and now you won't kiss her because she does? Look at yourself, Flynn. This is not her problem. This is _your_ problem."

Flynn frowned, brooding.

One time she bit her lip while trying to get the proportions of the caterpillar she was drawing right. She bit it, the soft pink skin stretching against her teeth, then her tongue darted out to soothe the bitten part and he just about lost it. He retreated to the back room and stayed here, leaning his forehead against the cool cement wall and taking deep, cleansing breaths.

"I don't get it," Flynn sighed, rubbing his temples as Tom stared him down. "I've been with a _lot_ of women. It didn't feel like this."

Flynn hated saying the word 'feel.' He hated feeling and he hated talking about feeling.

"I'm sick." He said. "I am seriously ill."

Tom sat up straighter, like he was getting to the good part of a movie. _Tom_ was sick. He got off on this crazy bullshit. Everyone was sick.

"How is it different?" Tom asked.

Flynn slouched helplessly. "I don't know. I guess most of the time I see a woman, I acknowledge she's attractive, she sizes me up, we go somewhere, we fuck, it's over. Done."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Flynn glared. "Come on, Doc."

Tom snorted. "It's a valid question. Therapists ask it for a reason."

Flynn sighed. "It makes me feel... physically gratified, and accomplished."

"Accomplished, how?"

"Like validated, I guess. This woman who most guys would give a limb to be with picked me, and I... did a good job? Do you really want the details? I mean how does it make _you_ feel when some girl screams your name? Or do you know?"

Tom deflected with a curious smile. "That doesn't sound like it's about the sex at all. Interesting."

"Pft. Of course it's about the sex. That's all there is between us."

Tom shook his head. "When most people describe sex, they talk about warmth, tension, pleasure or pain, force, closeness, sensation... you talk about it like a business transaction. Like these women give you a little gold star and a positive review."

Flynn was silent, chewing on that.

"When you describe Rapunzel, it's different," Tom continued.

"I've never had sex with Rapunzel."

"Right. You've barely touched her. And yet you describe her in more sensory terms than women with whom you've been intimately acquainted."

One time there was a big game on at the bar and when Corona won, someone really annoying started throwing purple and yellow confetti everywhere. It took hours to clean up. And Rapunzel stayed to help, getting under the tables with a dust pan and helping him take all the streamers down. And then she picked glitter and tiny construction paper suns out of his hair with a giggle, her fingertips just brushing his brow like butterfly wings.

Flynn groaned, letting his face fall into his hands. "What is _wrong_ with me?"

Tom remained neutral. "Why do you think that means there's something wrong with you?"

"Why _her_? She's barely more than a kid. What does that say about me?"

"You're reading into the wrong things," Tom said firmly. "Unless you regularly find yourself attracted to much younger women and have neglected to tell me."

"No."

"It's not because she's young that you're drawn to her, it's because she's _her_. It sounds like she doesn't take things for granted. Like she actually experiences her life. You touch a beautiful woman and feel nothing. Rapunzel touches anything and feels _everything_. You're used to people looking at you and seeing what they could take from you. And it sounds like she looks at you and just sees _you_. Can't you see why that would be appealing? You don't use your nerve endings, Flynn. You've gone your whole life without feeling anything. And here's a girl who feels and makes _you_ feel."

Flynn swallowed, a sinking feeling filling him. It was just too much all at once, too many risks to take, too many ways things could go horribly wrong. "But what about her? She could get really hurt."

"The fact that you even give a damn is pretty telling."

"I could break her heart."

Tom nodded. "Yeah. That's what happens to people. They get their hearts broken. She's eighteen. She's overdue for a broken heart. And so are you."

* * *

><p>On Saturday night Rapunzel seemed worried, slouched down in her stool like she'd been completely deflated. When he inquired, she said that her court date was Monday and she was scared.<p>

"Aw, don't be scared," he said casually. "This is small time court. There won't even be any lawyers, just a judge. Just explain your side and he'll assign you some community service or something and then it will be over."

"I've never been to court," she said quietly. "The judge sounds scary."

"They're just grumpy," he said. "Their robes are uncomfortable."

"The court house is enormous," she said, cuddling into her hood. "I'll feel so small."

Flynn leaned onto the counter closer to her, so he could speak quietly, soothingly. "They'll probably put you in one of the smaller, side rooms. They're really modern and have carpets and stuff, none of that huge cathedral-esque stuff going on. Just a normal room. Do you know if spectators are allowed?"

She shook her head. "I don't really know, they said I could bring someone if I wanted, but they'd have to just sit and watch."

"Would it help if I was there?" He said it before he thought it through, and yet he didn't regret it. He wouldn't unsay it, even if he could.

She looked up at him, her huge green eyes swimming with confusion and a little hope. "Would you come with me?"

"Of course." Not 'maybe.' Not 'sure.' Of course. Of course he would go with her. Of course he would be with her. It was a given. And he was strangely okay with that.

Flynn collected his tips from the week and bought himself a pair of nice slacks and shoes for court. He really didn't care what the judge thought. But he wanted Rapunzel to feel at ease, to feel like he was taking her seriously and not blowing the situation off.

She explained to the judge that while she knew it wasn't encouraged to paint on buildings, she wasn't aware how 'serious' a crime it was, and she was sorry and she wouldn't do it again. It made Flynn uncomfortable to see her apologize for something that made her happy, and irritated to see the judge frowning severely at her. The mill _did_ look better with suns on it. Come on, Corona. Get with the program.

Because she seemed to understand her 'wrong-doing,' and because the content of her paintings was relatively innocuous, the judge assigned her no fine and only ten community service hours, but part of those hours had to be spent painting over her 'decorations.'

Flynn suggested they get slurpees afterwards and throw bread to the pigeons out front, something she'd expressed extreme interest in earlier.

"_To_ the pigeons," she corrected glumly. "Not _at_ them. And no, thank you. I think I just want to go home."

Flynn raised an eyebrow. Rapunzel _never_ wanted to go home. If he let her, he was pretty sure she'd follow him around all day every day. "What's up?" he asked.

She looked really uncomfortable in her crisp, prim shirt-dress. She looked grown up and uncomfortable.

"Come on," he said gently. "Ten hours isn't so bad. You can get that done in a week. And Pascal will be there with you. I would too, but I don't think they'd let me."

"I don't want to paint over my drawings," she said, shoulders drooping. "I spent a lot of time on them. They look nice. Now I have to paint over them like they were never there. Sometimes that's how I feel, like I'm not even here. Why did I even bother leaving that house? Sometimes I wonder that. I feel like it doesn't even matter that I'm here."

"Whoa, whoa," Flynn said, ushering her over to a bench near the pigeons. "Just because the judge doesn't know art when he sees it does_ not_ mean that you don't matter."

"But I don't have any impact on anything," she said. "I might as well still be locked up for all the difference it makes that I'm out here. My landlady doesn't like me, Doctor Jones thinks I'm crazy, I can't even hold down a job. I had a job working in a restaurant when I first got out, the police set it up for me. I liked it, I was a line cook. I love to cook, and I'm good at it. I really improved the dishes, I think. I made them taste better and look better, but I was fired because I guess you're not supposed to do that on the line. But the food was so bland and boring if I made it like they said. I don't get it."

"Now I'm a maid for a big hotel and I'm not even sure how long I'm going to last at _that_. I'm good at cleaning, too. And I make the towels into these little origami animals. But the head housekeeper said that it's not professional or elegant and I have to stop. She said the same thing when I left flowers I found on the way to work in rooms after I'd cleaned them. And when I tried turning the sheets down in different ways. I can tell she's getting impatient with me. But if I can't do _any_ of those things then every room is the same, and there are hundreds of rooms, every day. It's so boring. I feel like I'm _dying_. Who cares if I clean them? If I don't, someone else will."

She sniffed, staring at her hands. "I don't know. When I first got out, the world seemed so enormous, and limitless. So many people, and so many things, I could go anywhere and do anything and never do the same thing twice. But that's not really how it is, is it? I can't afford anything, and I don't know the right people, or I don't know the rules. Now I even have to cover up my stupid drawings."

Flynn watched her watching the pigeons for a long time. He wasn't the best for pep talks of this kind. He'd never been terribly impressed with the world. And he'd been pretty damn bored of everything until she came along. It made him even more jaded to see things conspire against her, trying to snuff out someone who felt more deeply than he'd have thought possible.

"Yeah, people suck," he said simply. "Most people are really tiresome, soulless things. But you know, we can kind of carve out our own space for what we want to do. In fact, I have something I need your help with. And you owe me, because they won't give me the bail money back until you've finished your service hours."

She looked at him, still down but unable to hide her curiosity.

"Why don't you run home and change, and meet me at my place after? Bring your paints. And a shopping list, because I want to see if you're really such a good cook."


	11. Chapter 11

They went to the grocery store first. It Flynn hadn't been very mindful, they'd have been there all night long. Rapunzel was alternately enamored with and intimidated by the supermarket. She'd explained that she usually went to the little market street up town for her shopping, and hadn't yet ventured into such an enormous store filled with food.

Sometimes she'd dash down the aisles, grinning at all the choices. Her recipe called for potatoes, and she marveled at all the different types and colors, picking each up to feel its texture, and loading a bag of every type into their cart. Flynn followed discretely after, putting most of them back because he was broke and couldn't afford to fund her potato habit, which made him feel unexpectedly remorseful.

Once, she got away from him in her excitement, and he found her in the dairy aisle, staring at the goat cheese section with obvious melancholy. "There are just so many," she murmured, fretting with the drawstring of her hoodie. "I didn't even know goats _made_ cheese."

Flynn glanced at their list, which Rapunzel had drawn up with a sparkly purple pen and some random doodles of nebulae she found interesting, each carefully labeled underneath: 'Cat's Eye Nebula,' 'Southern Crab Nebula,' 'Spirograph Nebula.' That last one looked like a boob.

He cleared his throat. "Do we even need goat cheese?"

She shook her head.

He lightly touched her shoulder, starting to steer her away from the cheese. "Sometimes you just gotta focus," he said. "If you try to take everything in at once, you'll be overwhelmed."

And so he followed her around the store, bumping her gently towards her task when she got distracted by a display. They stuck mostly to the list, though he indulged her particularly intense desire to purchase an eggplant. "Can you explain them to me?" she asked excitedly as they made their way to the check-out. She was clutching the large, purple thing to her chest like a teddy-bear. Eugene was half-concerned it would rupture and she'd have another reason to be naked in his apartment, showering in his shower, coming out in his clothes.

He shook himself a little. You know when a girl carrying an eggplant leads to thoughts like that that you haven't been laid in way too long. He coughed. "Explain them?"

She nodded, ignoring the tabloids and chewing gum lining the check-out that entranced most people. "They're so funny. They're so light, they look like they should be heavy. And their color! Bizarre! What do they have to do with eggs?"

He supposed it had something to do with their flavor, but he'd never actually eaten egg plant, so he didn't know, and told her as much.

She gawked at him. "You've never eaten eggplant?"

He shook his head. "Why is that so weird?"

She shrugged, surrendering her eggplant to the cashier. "I thought you'd done everything."

Laughing, he said, "No one's done _everything_."

It felt oddly domestic, and a little nice, carrying groceries with her back to his apartment. This was one thing he hadn't done before - gone grocery shopping with anyone. It hadn't occurred to him, but that was a task he always completed alone, and usually he was too lazy to walk all the way to the supermarket and stopped at the corner store instead, even though it was more expensive.

She turned to him as they walked. "What are other things you haven't done? What would you like to do?"

He shrugged, idly watching the breeze from the bay play through her short hair. The only thing he'd felt any real impulse to do lately was touch her - just the most basic of touches, her hair, or her cheek, or the back of her neck, just something deliberate, something that couldn't be construed as bumping into her, or helping her find her way. Touching her just to touch her, to see how she'd feel under his hand, to see how she'd react to the feel of him.

"Uh..." he hefted the bags higher in his arms. "I don't really have any _goals_ per se. I just kind of... go with the flow." A fact he was usually proud of, but sounded lame now next to her boundless enthusiasm for life.

She looked at him skeptically. "There's_ nothing_ you'd like to do? Nothing you'd like to experience that you haven't?"

When she was asking hard questions, the dimple on her left cheek was more pronounced. It was odd and adorable.

She brightened. "Maybe you just haven't found out yet! It will come to you."

"Maybe," he said. But he wasn't so sure. Dr. Jones had made one or two good points in their time together, one of which had been that he hadn't actually _wanted_ any of the crap that he stole. And he thought he wanted all the women he brought home, but it was pretty pathetic how much less he wanted to fuck them than he wanted to kiss Rapunzel just once, just briefly. Everything about him was pathetic. No, everything about him was awesome. He preferred that point of view.

"What about you?" he asked, desperate to have the attention off of him. "What do you want to do?"

She brightened. "I want to do so many things! I want to go digging for clams. Did you know you can see them under the sand because these little bubbles come up? I want to visit a foreign country - no, _every_ foreign country. I want to catch a mole. You know, one of those blind things under ground? Then I'd let it go again, but I want to catch it first. I want to wear a _really_ fancy dress to a _really_ nice place. I want to throw a surprise party for someone, with big balloons and an ice cream cake. I want to climb at least thirteen different mountains. I-"

She was getting so excited he was worried she'd injure herself somehow, so he interrupted as they scaled the stairs to his apartment. "Wow, that's quite a bucket list you've got there."

She beamed. "It's a lot longer than that! But do you know what I _really_ want to do? The most of all?"

He was a little afraid. But she barreled on. "I want to go to college."

Huh... not what he was expecting. "Then go," he said, swinging the door open and setting the bags down on the counter. "You're really smart, I'm sure you'd do well in college."

She blushed, smiling down at her shoes. Every time he said something even remotely nice to her she reacted that way. It meant she was used to a different kind of treatment, and the thought made his stomach churn.

"Well," she said, setting her bags next to his. "I've only looked into it a little, but I don't have my high school diploma, or any grades to show them. I don't have any extra-curriculars or anything, and I don't know who I could get to write a recommendation. I don't think I could get in."

He started unloading the bags. "You can get your GED. And you come from harrowing circumstances. Colleges love that shit. I bet Jones would write you a rec, too."

Flynn actually knew a pretty good amount about college admissions. The few years he showed up semi-regularly to high school, he was constantly being dragged to the guidance counselor's office to be lectured about how if he'd only go to class, if he'd only do _some_ of his homework, if he'd only care just a little bit, he could go to college and suddenly that would make him worthwhile as a person. He'd always responded that he was already worthwhile, but he wondered now if he ever believed that. The guidance counselor certainly never had.

She looked so hopeful she could burst, digging into the bag of cooking supplies she'd brought over earlier with renewed excitement. "Do you think so?"

"Definitely," he said. She'd love college. She'd love learning and reading and expressing herself. It would be a great chance for her. And she could make friends her own age. Who weren't bartenders in trouble with the law. He wanted that for her, and wanted _her_ at the same time, and that was more than a little confusing. And awkward.

"I'm going to make something really basic tonight," she said happily, arranging the ingredients. "Roast chicken and mashed garlic potatoes and some spring vegetables. And then next time I'll make something weirder. And something even weirder after that. So you'll just have to keep having me over."

He wanted to laugh. She was trying to entice him into inviting her over with the prospect of 'weird' food. Only Rapunzel.

She set him up peeling potatoes while she prepped the chicken, chattering all the while. He liked her chatter, even if it didn't all make sense to him. He liked the way she looked when she knew what she was doing, cutting and trimming and stuffing and seasoning. She looked confident, and happy, and comfortable. She looked warm under the kitchen light, cozy somehow, soft and bright compared with the dark spring night outside.

When the chicken was in the oven (he'd never quite realized he had an oven before), she put the potatoes he'd peeled to boil, then drained the pot and added some garlic and milk and butter, and gave him the masher so he could work on that while she cut up the vegetables to steam.

She kept looking up from the cutting board to watch him, and he wanted to chide her so she wouldn't cut herself, but he also liked the way she was looking. Shyly, curiously, a little tint of color on her cheeks. He never knew mashing potatoes made his arms look so good. He should make a habit of it around her. Whenever he caught her eye with a smirk, she quickly looked away in the most adorable way possible.

The potatoes warming on the stove, the chicken in the oven, the vegetable steaming, the apartment smelling amazing, Rapunzel washed her hands and turned to the big bare wall besides which she'd set down her paints. "Okay!" She said. "Let's get started on this mural!"

She'd practically leapt out of her skin earlier when he explained what he wanted her to do. An enormous white wall? Anything she wanted to paint? Leaving her mark? Leaving her mark on _Flynn's apartment_? It was like she couldn't contain all of her happiness.

Now she approached the wall with an exhilarated determination, cracking open the big can of yellow paint she brought and dipping her brush in with relish, smearing buttercup across the wall like it was downright cathartic.

Flynn popped the cap off a beer on the counter top, leaning back to watch, giving the potatoes a stir now and again as per her instruction. She was completely consumed by her work, even though it seemed so simple to him. There was something settling about watching her, something calming spreading out from his chest into his limbs. It was like an ache he didn't know he'd had was being soothed.

The feeling stayed with him as she painted half the wall yellow, and as she took the chicken out of the oven, and as she grinned at her work and served it up on mismatching plates, and as they sat on the couch with their plates in their laps and ate. It was delicious. Savory and warm and homey and filling. Eating wasn't something he usually spent a lot of time doing - he couldn't cook, he was broke, and he'd rather be doing other things. But watching her eat might make him change his mind - she was totally into it, her toes curling in her socks as she took a bite, leaning back into the cushions with her eyes closed. He wanted to ask what made her react that way, what she was feeling, but experience told him asking women about their eating habits was a bad idea.

They ate their fill and set their empty plates aside, reclining with a sigh.

"Well..." he said slowly, folding his hands over his stomach. "You were right. That was really good. You _can_ cook."

She smiled triumphantly, mirroring his posture.

He eyed the wall, painted half yellow, the line through the middle perfectly straight thanks to her careful use of painter's tape. "As for your painting... you're going to have to interpret that for me."

She laughed, her nose crinkling. "It's not done yet. You're just going to have me over again so I can finish it. It'll take more than one day. It'll take several days."

His turn to laugh, and he leaned slightly towards her. "You really want to come back, don't you?"

She turned towards him, nodding with a little giggle.

Her face was so close to his he could see the darker flecks in her wide green eyes, the tiny freckles dusted across her skin. "If I were you," he said softly, watching her eyelids lower a little at the deep sound of his voice. "I'd want to be as far away from me as possible."

She shook her head slightly, her gaze sliding obviously to his mouth. "It's just the opposite," she whispered.

She reached out slowly, slipping her hand into his, running her thumb over his knuckles, watching his face as she scooted closer, the side of her leg pressed against his.

He strained to keep his expression neutral, to hold still. Every little place they touched sent a thrum through is pulse, making his blood warm and his heart beat faster. If he wasn't careful, he'd do something rash. Like scream and run away. Or grin like an idiot. Or push her back on the couch and kiss and touch her until she moaned herself hoarse. So he just stayed where he was. It was a little embarrassing, really. He was a man who knew his moves. He was more familiar with this situation than she had any idea. But with her it was just different enough to make him a little nervous. He actually cared about the outcome, for one. He actually cared how she felt.

He leaned forward the centimeter required for their foreheads to just touch, his nose brushing against hers so softly he could barely feel it, the hold of their hands so loose she could slip right away from him.

When she spoke, her words were so quiet it was like he could hear her thoughts, her breath warm and barely there on his lips. "I want to be as close to you as possible."

His free hand reached up, almost of his own accord, his fingertips trailing lightly up her arm, over her shoulder, tangling into her hair as he cupped her jaw, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheek. Her skin was so soft it felt like even his lightest touch could be too rough, but she leaned into his palm, her eyes fluttering closed.

She was so beautiful - the gentle slope of her nose, her lips - pink, and parted, her eyelashes dark against her skin. She tilted her chin up, waiting for him to close the distance between them, waiting for him to touch their lips together, to admit to her what he felt in the clearest, strongest way possible. To kiss her would mean everything, and make every kiss that came before her mean nothing at all. Her fingers squeezed his, silently begging him to end the tension, the waiting, the pretending that they didn't want each other as badly as they did. The wanting for her clenched around his stomach and his heart, straining up his spine, urging him forward.

_"Flynn_," she murmured.

And he balked, sweat breaking out at the back of his neck as he dropped her hand, as his palm slid away from her face to fall limp at his side. She didn't know _him_. She didn't want _him_. She didn't know what she was asking for. If he kissed her, _his_ heart would break. All control of the situation would be wrenched clear from him, he'd be lost and helpless and dependent. He knew it. He recoiled. It was the same instinct that kept him from ever believing a kind word from the nuns, or ever getting attached to a foster family, or ever liking a friend too much, or ever trusting a business partner. These instincts saved his life time and again, and he knew it was the same scenario with Rapunzel. He'd hand himself over to her and she'd not know what to do with him, she'd flit about and do what she wanted until she wanted something else. It wasn't worth it. Feeling her against him, as much as he wanted to, was not worth that kind of fall.

Her eyes opened slowly, the color drained from her face like the wind had been knocked out of her. She blinked at him, hurt and perplexed, her hand lifting to touch where his palm had been, then her lips, as if wondering if they'd kissed and she'd missed it somehow. "What..."

He stood, collecting their plates and dumping them in the sink. "You've outdone yourself," he said, his voice strained despite every effort at sounding casual. "Really, it was delicious. And that wall is really yellow. Good work."

She stared at him, eyebrows knitting in confusion, shoulders slouched, dejected. She bit her lip, pulling her hands into her sleeves like she was cold. "I don't understand..."

He busied himself finding odd plates and bowls to put the leftovers on. There was plenty of space in the fridge for it all, since he didn't have much food. "I know, I know, you're not done. But what a strong start. That's a great shade of yellow."

She stood, wandering into the kitchen area like she'd just woken up, disoriented. "No," she said softly. "I mean... why... " she paused, looking into his face with a mix of desperation and aching hurt. "Why didn't you kiss me?"

He chuckled, and it was so forced and fake it was hard to believe he'd made the sound. "What are you talking about?"

"Flynn, stop," she said, her voice cracking. "Please don't do this. Maybe I'm crazy, but I didn't imagine that."

He looked pointedly at her shoulder, where there may or may not have been a pet chameleon. "You _do_ imagine a lot of things."

Tears pricked her eyes, and it was like a blow to his gut, the sight of her upset making him feel sick. "Please stop," she whispered.

He sighed, dropping the potato pot into the sink to soak and leaning his hip against the counter. "Look," he said blandly, his insincerity dripping like bile down his throat. "Whatever you think you want from me - don't. It's not going to happen."

She frowned in her sadness and anger, her tiny hands balling into fists. "I don't _think_ I want you. I _know_ want you. I just _told_ you. I want to be _close_ to you. Why do you keep pushing me away?"

He waved his hand. "Come on, how are you supposed to know what you want? You're barely more than a kid. You never even had a childhood."

She didn't back down, her green eyes sparking with indignation. "And now I'm not allowed to have an adulthood, either? What is my life, exactly? I get to be handed from one person to another to be told what I can't do, and I can't feel, and I can't have until I die?"

He didn't mean a word he said, but the way she challenged him brought out every note of sarcastic hurt he had. "Well life sucks, doesn't it? Welcome to the outside world."

She shook her head. "_No_," she said firmly. "It doesn't have to be this way. You _told me_ it doesn't. We can make room for what we want, we can make space for each other. Just let me in, Flynn."

Her repetition of that name just finalized things, shuttering whatever parts of his heart had been open to her just moments before. "Actually, I think you better go." He reached for the eggplant, plopping it into her stunned arms. "Here's your eggplant. It's been swell." He had her out the door in only a few seconds, and locked and latched it behind her. He heard her sniffling and whimpering a little on the landing for several minutes before her she slowly descended the stairs, each one creaking under her light weight.

Flynn checked the fridge. He had just enough beers to get drunk enough to forget, for a time, how she looked, and smelled, and felt, if he drank them in a row.


	12. Chapter 12

Flynn hadn't been hungover in a long time. Not since before prison, which meant not for at least five years. It was about how he remembered it.

He knew that most of the problems that come with hangovers - the aches, the pains, the vision issues - have to do with being dehydrated, and that the best way to avoid them is to drink a lot of water in between shots, or beers, as the case may be. But after Rapunzel left, he'd been in a rather self-destructive mood, and water was the last thing on his mind.

He regretted that now, struggling to sit up in bed as late afternoon sunlight poured mockingly in through the windows. Everything ached, his head most of all, and he ran a hand over his scruffy face and squinted around him.

Everything about his surroundings seemed to scream, "Ha ha, you fucked up!" Like his empty bed. Not that he'd have taken her to bed with him after one kiss, she definitely wasn't ready for that, but she might have stuck around. They might have done other mutually gratifying things. She might have crawled up there on her own and passed out. And he might have curled around her. And he might have woken up with her there, and tickled her awake and they might have had cold chicken for breakfast and finished painting that wall.

That damn wall was half yellow and staring at him, paint and brushes scattered around the floor with her discarded tape. It was a beacon of his cowardice.

He groaned as he got to his feet and trundled down the ladder. He was still wearing his clothes from the night before, and there were empty beer bottles and cigarette butts all over the place. What kind of man chases a cute girl out of his apartment, especially one who can cook, so he can get drunk on his own? A sad one. A stupid one.

He felt marginally better after he gathered the garbage up and tossed the bag to the curb, then took a shower and shaved and put on fresh clothes. But he knew this hangover would have staying power, and he probably would need another night before he was back to normal.

He checked his phone, and for the first time in weeks he had no messages. No random observations about how fat the rats in the subway tunnels are. No questions about why earlobes exist. No exclamations about the expanding universe and its mysteries. No bizarre recipe suggestions. Not even a "GOOD MORNING!" He always got one of those.

He skipped eating, because he didn't want to look at the leftovers in the fridge, and the eggs were in the back. He went to work early, because he thought maybe she would be there. She sometimes got there ahead of him, if she finished her rounds early, and was waiting for him with a grin and an odd comment. But she wasn't there.

As he swept and got the bar ready for another Tuesday night, he wondered if he actually regretted what had transpired the night before. He had every good reason to push her away. It was for her own protection, and his. Yeah, he was infatuated with her. She was adorable and sexy in a disarming way. She was endlessly entertaining, and held his attention in a way few things did. In a way _nothing_ did.

She seemed sincere, and sincerity was a novel quality to Flynn. She seemed to listen to what he was saying, and sometimes heard things he hadn't voiced.

His usual disconnect came with women when he had to be around them for more than a few hours. Once they'd stopped with the sweating and the panting, he wanted them gone as quickly as possible. He hated making conversation aside from flirting. It was exhausting. He didn't give a crap and he didn't feel like faking it. He always tried to get them to leave and not spend the night because he loathed the thought of what to do with them in the morning besides a quickie. In other words, he never mourned the thought of the leftovers they could have had while laughing at each other's bed head.

With Rapunzel, they could probably be staring at the half-yellow wall, saying nothing, and he'd be interested. Interested in the expressions that crossed her face while she was thinking. Interested in the rhythms she tapped out with her fingers on her knees. Interested in the way she smelled. God damn it, how was it okay for any one person to smell so good? It was cheating, somehow. It was cheating.

And that was why this was a bad idea. Why it was dangerous. Because being around her was distracting, and not being around her was endlessly frustrating. Wanting her was becoming physically painful, and that's just ridiculous. That was way too akin to the kind of garbage he'd been mixed up in before his arrest. Dependency on anything at all is a bad idea. It makes you way too vulnerable. It bleeds you dry in every way. Flynn Rider would never get so wrapped up in one woman that he moped and carried on this way.

But that was really the issue, wasn't it? Flynn Rider? _He _wouldn't do those things, but...

The door opened and Flynn looked up, but it wasn't Rapunzel. It was just one of the thugs, sauntering to the back to join the others.

Well, maybe they could just be friends. Friends was okay. Friends was fun. Friends would work if he didn't smell her and immediately wonder how she'd taste. And didn't see her absently run her fingertips over the back of her neck, or notice the curves of her hips. And couldn't hear her laugh, or sigh, or hum. So basically he'd have to be completely senseless to be her friend and not want her unbearably.

He looked up every single time the door opened for the next eight hours and she never came in. He checked his phone like it was a tick he had, and she never texted or called. The wall was still only half done when he got home, and he went to sleep alone again, _feeling_ alone for the first time in a long time, and agonized and infuriated by that weakness.

* * *

><p>The next night, Flynn felt a lot better, at least physically. The hangover was gone, he was sexy as always, and it was a mild, warm late April evening. Around ten pm, the door opened, and in walked Rapunzel.<p>

She wasn't grinning, or skipping, or slouching, or any of her usual entrances. No, she caught his eye and strode toward him like she was entering a battlefield. Her shoulders back, her head held high, and he couldn't be sure, but it seemed like she was wearing lip gloss.

He had meant, when he saw her again, to be gentle and kind. To be at least slightly apologetic. Because even if they couldn't be romantically entwined, even if they couldn't be friends, it was still not his intention to hurt her. He still ached at the thought of her tears and her pain. He didn't want that for her.

But her battle stance raised his defenses, like a reflex, like how if you run from a dog it _will_ chase you. If you sass Flynn Rider, he _will _sass you right back, no matter how remorseful he may be feeling inside.

She walked right up to the bar and slapped a fifty crown note onto the counter with an open, flat palm, staring him down like they were about to pull weapons on each other.

He raised an eyebrow. "Buying a round for the thugs?"

She ignored him, taking a deep breath and squaring her stance. "I want to buy a kiss," she said firmly.

He stopped drying the glass he was holding. "Excuse me?"

She tapped the bill once. "I want to buy a kiss. From you. I heard fifty is the going rate. I want one."

Something in Flynn balked at the thought, curling up inside himself. This wasn't some drunk, sad chick looking to be physically entertained. This wasn't someone he didn't know, didn't care about. This was Rapunzel. Sweet, kind, silly Rapunzel. His friend. Rapunzel, who for the past few weeks had been the complete content of his fantasies, when he wasn't mindful enough to tamp them down. She treated him differently from everyone else, or so he thought. Except now, when she wanted to trade money for his affection. His insides turned twitchy, in anticipation and dread at the same time. He wanted to kiss her. He didn't want to kiss her. He wanted to, but not like this. He didn't want to at all.

He scoffed, turning to put the glass away. There weren't many people in the bar, but he had a feeling she'd regret everyone there overhearing their conversation, so he went around the bar to stand in front of her. "You heard wrong. You get what you pay for when it comes to kissing, and fifty's barely enough to cover a hug."

She pursed her lips. "I thought you'd try to overcharge me. So, here." she reached down into her pocket and procured another fifty, placing it next to the first.

_Overcharge_? Ouch. He eyed the money, feeling sick. "Where'd you get that?"

"I worked overtime on the night shift last night," she said. "If I get what I pay for, it should be a really good kiss."

Flynn stared at her for several seconds, trying to understand the chill that had stolen through him. Like icy sludge seeping down his spine and into his stomach. He sold kisses all of the time. He sold them to women far less attractive than Rapunzel. He should be acting cocky now, grinning, saying something vaguely offensive, taking her money, and giving her a good old Flynn Rider kiss. But the idea of such an exchange with _her_, with Rapunzel, was bitter to him. Like she'd finally given up on him, finally sunk to his level. He didn't _want_ her on that level.

Maybe he didn't want _to be_ on that level.

"No." he said quietly.

Her jaw visibly clenched and he could tell she was doing her best to stand firm. "Why not?"

How could he explain it? He wasn't that person, really. He didn't want to be that person, not around her. He didn't want their closeness tangled up in that. She'd been separate in his thoughts since he'd known her. He'd behaved strangely around her, differently than all other times. Now she wanted the two to meet, and he couldn't. He wouldn't. "I... just, no. I don't want to."

And there were the tears again, building behind her green eyes. Eyes that were trying to be so tough but were so soft, so open. "You don't want to kiss me? You'll kiss _everyone_ but me? What have I -" she shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment while she breathed through her nose, resetting her business-like exterior. "That's discrimination," she said stubbornly. "I can pay, just like everyone else."

Flynn rolled his eyes. "Who are you going to report me to? The better business bureau? This operation is not exactly on the record."

His sarcasm broke her, the last of her facade flaking away to reveal only her obvious pain. "Why can't you treat me like everyone else? Why can't anyone? If you don't want to treat me like I'm special, if you don't want to treat me like I matter to you, then why can't you just treat me like everybody else you don't care about? Why can't you -"

Her words disoriented him, made his stomach turn, made his head pound, made him think about things he didn't want to. He felt split in two, like two different people who were determined to strangle each other were forced to share one body. His unfortunate, battered, confused body.

She had to stop talking. He had to shut her up. So for that reason, or maybe another reason unknown to him, he leaned down and kissed her.

He meant for it to be quick, and firm, and done with. He meant to make her stop talking and stun her so she'd leave him alone. But that part of him that she had ensnared from the first time he'd seen her seized the moment and clung to it, brushing his plans aside, ignoring thought and reason.

First kisses should be light and tender and sweet. Wasn't that what girls wanted? But she paid for a hundred crown kiss, and that's what she was going to get. He pressed his lips to hers, closed-mouthed but fervent, the instant, electric connection between them intense and scalding. His eyes closed instantly, every sense shutting down but touch and taste as he slowly tilted his head, the kiss shifting between sensual and fierce, erratic, desperate. When was the last time he'd closed his eyes during a kiss? Had he ever? Had he ever really _felt_ a kiss before? He couldn't remember, couldn't think.

He cupped her jaw in his hands, holding her still, tilting her head back as he traced his tongue over her lower lip, tasting her and teasing her, completely taken in by her. She opened her mouth just slightly, kissing back in complete and honest eagerness, reaching out to fist her hands in the front of his shirt, clinging to him for support.

One of his hands shifted to the back of her neck, tangling his fingers in her hair, holding her in place while the other settled on her hip to pull her right up against him. She was strung tight from her toes to her finger tips, pushing her body against his, pulling his life up through his veins, through his mouth and into her.

Then she opened just a little more and her tongue touched his and the very last of his resolve disappeared completely. His hand spread from her hip to the small of her back, bracing her against his forearm, pulling her up onto her toes as his tongue stroked along hers, every muscle in his body straining towards the space where they were connected. She was pliant and gorgeous in his arms, her palms pressed flat against his chest, burning into his skin through his shirt. She let out the sexiest, most delicious sound he'd ever heard, a half-moan, half-whimper, laced with need and something _else_. Something _ more._ Something deeper than that.

He heard it and he felt it, in her chest against his, and he would have moaned back, helpless and defeated and desperate for her, but he had no more breath in him. And he realized then that he'd been holding his breath since their lips first touched. And he _knew_ he had _never_ held his breath for a kiss. He'd never held his breath for anyone, or anything. But for her, he did. She took the breath from him.

He pulled back, gasping. His pulse hammered in his ears as his eyes opened. Her lips were pink and bitten, and so kissable he almost fell right back into her, but he resisted, stunned and dizzy. His nerves felt like they would melt right off of him, and his lungs felt like they would burst.

Her eyes were running over his face, unreadable. She looked shocked, and devastated, and elated, and something _else_, something _more_.

_In love_. _She looked liked she was in love._

And every part of him that had been burned was now doused in ice. Every inch warmed by her touch now frozen. Where did that thought come from? What did he know of a look like that? What reference did he have? He was delusional.

Was he looking back at her like that? Did she see that in him?

Was he seeing what he wanted to see?

No. He didn't want that. He didn't want her to feel that way for him. He didn't want her. He. Did. Not. Want. Her. At. All.

He braced his hands on her shoulders, pushing her away to arm's length, his elbows locked, holding her away from him like she was contagious. And half of him sighed in cool relief while the other half _screamed_.

_No! Don't do this! Don't do this._ _Don't push her away. I need her. I want her. I-_

He grimaced, turning his face away. He'd completely lost it. He was arguing with himself now. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't even think. He couldn't even decipher his own thoughts.

The part of him rebelling just made him angry. How was he supposed to think straight? How was he supposed to do anything? How was he supposed to _survive_ when his own self was mutinous? It was unacceptable. It was insane and unacceptable. He grabbed at his usual carelessness like a safety net, like armor.

"Are you happy?" he said, stunned by how cold he sounded, chilled by his own voice. "Is that what you wanted?"

She was quiet for long enough that he looked back at her face. For several moments she just watched him, stunned, waiting for him to say something else, something different. Waiting for his words to match what had just passed between them, what she'd just felt. He said nothing.

_Say something!_ That mutinous part of him shouted in his head. _Take it back! Take her back! Don't let go of her! _ He clenched his jaw. Inside he was being pulled apart at the seams, and it was all he could do to hold on.

And slowly, her surprise gave way, like the tide receding, leaving something very different from the frustrated anguish she'd shown before. She trembled a little, crossing her arms over her chest in a half-hug, her shoulders curling inwards protectively, resignedly.

She looked down at the counter, as if she couldn't bear to look at him for a single moment longer. She looked so young. She _was_ so young. She was young, and hopeful, and vulnerable, and he'd crushed her.

She opened her mouth as if to speak many times, but couldn't manage any words. Finally, she just choked "I won't... I won't bother you anymore."

"Wait, Rapunzel -" the other part of him broke free now, scrambling over his resolve.

She shook her head. "I really tried but... if you didn't feel that like I did, if... if you don't feel anything for me, I guess there's nothing I can do to change that."

He felt _too much_. He wanted to explain that to her - that he couldn't make sense of what she did to him, that it terrified him, that it tormented him. "But, I -"

"It's fine," she said brokenly, backing away from him. "I'll... I'll be okay. I'm sorry I was so stubborn. I'll let it go." And she turned on her heel, walking as quickly as she could out of the bar. The competing impulses inside him - to run after her, to run far away and hide - kept him rooted right where he was.


	13. Chapter 13

For the first time, Flynn actually felt nervous in therapy. "So... what do you think?"

Tom looked him over for a long time, his expression completely unreadable. He was leaning his elbows on the arms of his chair, pressing his clasped hands against his mouth. It wasn't an imperious pose, like it was for some shrinks. He just looked like he was thinking. Like he was completely stumped. "I don't know, Flynn. What do _you_think?"

Sighing, Flynn rubbed at his temple with one hand. "I don't know, either."

Tom at least looked sympathetic. "Well, let's see. So, you kissed her."

"Yes."

"And then you were a dick to her."

"...yes."

"Why?" Tom asked. "Did you not like the kiss? It was her first kiss, right? Cut the girl some slack."

Flynn snorted. "No, she was fine. It was good. It was... great." He'd replayed it over and over in his head, actually. Sometimes his lips and his fingertips tingled at the thought. Sure, she was a novice. But she was so into it that it was incredibly hot anyway, and he was so into _her _that he could easily overlook a little clumsiness on her part. Besides, she liked to learn, and he could teach her.

Tom smiled. "Then why the about-face?"

"I don't know... It didn't make any sense. As right as it all felt... it felt equally wrong, in a different way, and I couldn't stand it. I couldn't deal with her."

"Wrong, how?"

Flynn shrugged, thinking through his words carefully. He'd thought about it constantly between the kiss and therapy, so he had little bits and pieces of a theory about why he'd acted the way he did. "Like... like I was enjoying it but I didn't want it, or like I wanted it but not that way. Like I had no control over the situation or over myself."

"Right," Tom said. "You're used to really calculated interactions with women. The stakes are clear from the beginning. There's no emotional investment."

"Well, there's that. But also I think it... there's the money thing, you know? It really caught me off guard that she did that. I wasn't expecting it from her. I expect it from other women. It's the _point_with other women, but with Rapunzel..."

Tom nodded. "Why does it bother you that Rapunzel wanted to pay you?"

"It just didn't... it didn't seem like her. It didn't seem like us. I give Rapunzel a lot of things I don't give other people, and I don't mean free drinks. I mean I tell her things. We... talk about things I won't talk about with other people. I do things for her, you know? I mean, I support her when she needs support. I kind of... take care of her. I don't do that with other people. And her offering me money for something really personal between us..." It felt like a slap in the face. Tom seemed to understand.

"That makes a lot of sense, Flynn."

Did it? Flynn wasn't sure anything made sense anymore.

"But," Tom continued. "Do you think she meant it as an insult? Do you think she meant to hurt you?"

"I don't know. She's beyond me. I don't understand anything she does."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "That's just lazy. You _do_understand, you just don't want to think too hard about it. Why do you think she worked overtime to give you that money? To hurt you?"

Hesitating, Flynn conceded, "No, not really. She doesn't seem that into hurting me."

"It seems to me like she's tried everything else to get through to you and now she's trying to play your game. She sees it working for other women, so why not her?"

"But it doesn't _really_ work for other women, not like Rapunzel wants it to," Flynn said, running a hand through his hair. "They get some physical favor. But that's not all Rapunzel wants. She wants a physical relationship _and_and emotional one. She wants the whole shebang."

Tom smirked. "I thought you said she didn't know what she wanted..."

Sometimes Flynn liked that Tom verbally smacked him around a bit. And sometimes it was just annoying. "I already told you about the sock thing," he grumbled. "And the grocery shopping, did I tell you about that? If I didn't watch out for her, she'd have bought every potato in the place. She can't make up her mind."

"We've been through this before," Tom said. "Don't equate her waffling about socks and potatoes to knowing what she wants from you. She's been very clear and consistent about that. Stop shifting the blame, Flynn."

Flynn cracked a little, both because that was a tall order and because, for whatever reason, being called Flynn like that was starting to grate on his nerves. It was like his very name was some kind of accusation, and he couldn't tell if that's how people intended it or if he was just starting to hear things. "What's the alternative?" he snapped. "That she hangs around me all the time because she really likes me, and she's always sending me messages and bringing me things and telling me stupid jokes because she gives a shit whether I'm happy or not, and she says what she does and touches me like she does and _looks_ at me like she does because I'm precisely what she wants? Me. This is me, you're talking to. You want me to buy all that?"

Tom tilted his head thoughtfully. "Is that so unreasonable?"

"Isn't it?"

"It happens all the time," Tom said. "You said yourself that you thought she was falling in love with you. Why is that so hard for you to believe?"

Flynn made a helpless gesture, completely floundering. It was against everything he stood for to start listing reasons why she would not love him. He was a build-himself-up kind of guy. And there are a million reasons why someone would _like_ him. He's sexy. He's charming. He's witty. He could mix a perfect martini blind-folded at gunpoint. And no one in Corona had better hair than Flynn. But those aren't reasons to love someone. You love people who are honest, and brave, and genuine, and compassionate, and vivacious, and all of that. You love people like Rapunzel.

"You know what?" Flynn said, crossing his arms over his chest and pushing back into his chair like a child. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Isn't this supposed to be about me? This therapy? All we've talked about is her. I've said all I have to say about her."

Tom should have looked shocked or ruffled or apologetic, but he just looked interested. "What's making you pull away? Where did your thoughts just go?"

"I'm tired of this. I don't want to think about it anymore."

"Well... you can see why that makes it seem like it's the one thing you should _really_ be talking about, don't you?"

"No," Flynn spat. "No I don't see why what I should really be talking about are all the reasons I don't think Rapunzel would love me." He grimaced. It sounded so saccharine and sad, those words out of his mouth. He didn't sound like a cocky, handsome twenty-something with the admiration of the entire city plus one eighteen year old light-weight. "God, I don't even like _saying _that."

"Love?"

"Seriously, can we just change the subject?"

"You just don't like the word love?"

"No, I don't. Not right now. Just stop that." Flynn was crawling out of his skin.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine. I don't know why the word scares you so much, but we'll use a different word. Uh... Puerto Rico."

"What? Stop it. What does that have to do with anything?"

Tom pressed on. "You're completely in Puerto Rico with this girl. It's intense. She's trying to soak it in and make the most of it, and you're dragging your feet. Most people go there for the weather, and all you can say is that it's _too_ hot. No matter how excited and enthusiastic she is, you whine, and whine, and whine some more. It's _too_ sunny. It feels _too_ good. Then, it feels bad. You want to stay there forever, and you wish you never came. And you complain in such a spastic, discouraging way that eventually she regrets being in Puerto Rico with you. She'd rather be in Puerto Rico with anyone _but_ you. But she's there, and she can't take it back. Sucks to be her."

Flynn sputtered. "Is that supposed to be encouraging? You know what? If I were in Puerto Rico, I'd go to the Bacardi distillery, get drunk on the beach, and be done with it! Puerto Rico can go to hell!"

"Then why _don't_ you, Flynn?" Tom pressed. "Why _don't_ you just have her over, have sex with her, and be done with her?"

Flynn instantly bristled, just hearing her referred to that way made him angry, and _that_ fact made him even _more_ frazzled. "I wouldn't do that to her," he said stiffly. "That would crush her."

"Her or _you_?"

"Fine!" Flynn snapped, tossing his hands up in there air. "You want me to say I'd be crushed? _Fine!_ I'm terrified that she cares about me like no one else ever has and that's just as fragile as any connection I've ever had with anyone else, and she could just as easily be done with me any time she feels like it. And she acts like she loves me but then she tried to buy me like everyone else and it feels like shit. And it's a lot easier to just push her away and have her out of my life than tell her any of this and just live _waiting_ for her to get bored or distracted or figure out that she doesn't actually care about me. Alright? Thank you, Doctor. I feel _so_ much better now. Really, it's like an enormous weight has lifted. It's so liberating to admit that I have no balls and I'm so scared of losing her that I threw her away. I have so much beautiful clarity now."

Tom was quiet for a long time. The only sound was Flynn's breathing, fast and impatient at first, then slowly calming. "You know," Tom said finally, "The point of therapy is to see those things so that you can decide if you want to change them. And then if you do, to figure out how. Maybe it's unpleasant to say those things to yourself, or out loud, but they will fester otherwise. Why don't you think it over this week? So you tossed her away out of fear. Are you okay with that? Maybe you are, in which case we can move on. Maybe not?"

The entire thing sounded so wishy-washy and shrink-ish that Flynn left the appointment with disdain and exhaustion clinging to him like slime.


	14. Chapter 14

_"So,"_ she said, running a perfectly painted nail over the counter top. "This is the great Flynn Rider's place, eh?"

Flynn shrugged a little, sliding off his shoes. He was all out of smarmy lines, it seemed. Maybe because he didn't really know what this woman was doing in his apartment. He looked her over. She was leaning against his fridge now, her long dark hair touching her waist. She had nice tits.

She smiled knowingly. "Like what you see?"

Flynn got the urge to shrug again, but he didn't feel like getting slapped in the face. So he smirked, which was always a safe bet, and moved towards the ladder. He was in weird state of mind. They should just get it over with.

She followed, and once they were both in the loft she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a very aggressive kiss. She tasted like tequila, which wasn't his favorite. He probably did too, since this all started with her challenging him to match her shot for shot. If he were drunk, he might even be enjoying this. But he was very unfortunately sober. He returned the kiss half-heartedly, which just seemed to egg her on, because she backed herself onto the bed and pulled him down with her.

She was objectively beautiful, and she felt good, and she smelled good, but Flynn was bored. He ran his hands lazily over her body, and all of her reactions were predictable, like they were running through the script of every one night stand he'd ever had. Even with her top and her bra gone, and the pads of his fingers trailing over her warm, smooth skin, it all felt very clinical to him. And he couldn't get Tom's voice out of his head: _"Right. You've barely touched her. And yet you describe her in more sensory terms than women with whom you've been intimately acquainted."_

Then they got to the part where she reached her groping hands down to his crotch, only this time, she looked up at him rather incredulously. "Something wrong?"

He raised an eyebrow down at her. Not on his end. She was the one boring him to tears. Except... oh. _Nothing_ was up on his end. At all.

Heh.

Whatever, he'd just blame her. "What can I say," he breathed against her neck, "takes a little something extra to get me going."

She practically growled at the challenge, rolling them over and stalking down his body like a beast of prey. She flicked his belt away, yanking his jeans and his boxers down unceremoniously. Flynn thought about objecting, because he was finally beginning to accept that for once in his life he just wasn't in the mood for a blow job, but he was too lazy to even push her away. He was also too lazy to mention that blowing a guy you don't know without protection is a dumbass move - he really couldn't care less about her health.

It wasn't long before she got what she wanted - maybe he wasn't in the mood, but that didn't stop him from being human. She grinned in triumph and ran her tongue over him one last languorous time before finally cluing in (apparently she didn't care about getting sick, just getting pregnant) and asking him if he had anything.

He deliberated saying no, just to extricate him from the situation and see how furious she got, but out of habit he reached for his bedside table drawer and tossed a little packet at her. She ripped it open with her teeth - as if that were a new move - and put it on him with her mouth. She was so original, really.

She rubbed herself over him a few times, like she could tease him, like he honestly gave a crap whether she went through with it or not, before moving astride him and moaning dramatically as they connected. Usually a moan like that would go straight to his ego. But it kind of grated on his nerves. It was almost practiced. Stale, somehow, compared to the sounds he'd been used to lately from someone completely different.

He put in a little effort, at least. But only a little. And after a few minutes of her wild enthusiasm, she noticed he didn't share her zeal. She pushed some of her hair back from her face. "You're not into it?"

He shrugged a little before remembering that girls really hate shrugging.

She sat up, disgusted. "Are you shitting me? What's your problem?"

Flynn repressed yet another shrug. "I dunno, it's kind of an off day for me. This doesn't usually happen."

She scoffed, digging her fingers into the roots of her hair in frustration. "You get on top, then."

Ugh, his reputation was going to suffer for this. "I don't think so," he said reaching down to gently push her off of him and reach for his pants. "You should probably get going."

"Are you _serious?_"

He tried to remember the last time he'd left a woman so unsatisfied, but he wasn't sure that had ever happened before. "Unfortunately." He didn't even care about the hit to his reputation. Something really _was_ wrong with him. "Listen... Amanda-"

"_Abigail_," she corrected crossly, grabbing her bra and her top.

"Abigail," he said, reaching out to help her clasp her bra, but she swatted at him angrily. "I'll give you a rain check."

She looked at him like he was completely crazy, which he was, and fled down the ladder and out of his apartment at record speed, his fastest one night stand ever. Did it count as one night stand if he could hardly even maintain his erection?

He'd allow himself the post-coitus cigarette, regardless.

* * *

><p>After a few more similar encounters, Flynn stopped bringing women home. For the first time since hitting puberty, it felt better to be alone than with a beautiful woman. In rare moments of honesty, he realized that it wasn't so much that he wanted space, he just wanted to be with one particular person. He panicked for a bit - had Rapunzel ruined women for him? No, no, he'd snap out of it. But until then, he was better off alone and not embarrassing himself.<p>

Then something very surprising happened - The captain showed up on a Tuesday.

"Open up!" he shouted, pounding on the door. His voice was unmistakable, but Flynn was still amazed the captain would deviate from his routine.

Flynn rubbed his eyes a little and opened the door. "What are you doing here?"

"What kind of idiot question is that?" the captain barked, striding in. "It's my job to be here. And today, I'm _really_ going to find your stash. You weren't expecting me, where you? You haven't had time to hide it. Might as well just give it up, Fitzherbert."

Flynn rolled his eyes, rubbing a tired hand over his stubble. "You're right, every day but Friday I just leave it lying around."

The captain huffed, heading for the ladder. Flynn said nothing, filling a glass of water.

"Aren't you going to try to stop me?"

Flynn took a few gulps, trying to wake himself up. "Why should I? You are so clever, Captain. Why try to hide?"

More huffing as the captain poked around in the loft. "This is disgusting," he said.

Flynn always made his bed in the morning and kept it neat, so he could only assume that the captain found his very existence nauseating.

"Let me make it easy for you," Flynn said, leaning against the counter. "In the closet, there are some drawers. Check the middle one."

The captain scoffed. "You want me to believe you keep your stash in your sock drawer?" But the captain rummaged a bit anyway, sliding drawers open and pushing stuff around. "There's just a bunch of cigarettes and office supplies in here. Where did you even get a paperweight this ugly?"

"From the dentist's."

"Why in the world do all of your physicians give you souvenirs? What is it about you?"

"They don't," Flynn said, "I take them."

"That's enough out of you," the captain muttered. "Why would you take this random nonsense? You're absurd, Fitzherbert, but I'll get to the bottom of this. You've stolen some of the most valuable items in Corona. Why would you be taking stationary?"

Because he'd been screwed over by his partners and fences. Because he'd had to leave items in hiding while he escaped, and 'friends' took them before he could go back to get them. Because when he had money he wasted it, and when he reached the prime of his criminal life, he was thrown in prison for five years.

The captain descended briskly from the loft, handing Flynn the regular little sealed cup with a glare. "I'll catch your system off guard, too. If you've been on drugs again, I'll know it."

Flynn sighed and headed for the bathroom. Drugs would make all of this a lot easier. And harder. He heard the captain poking around in the cabinets before opening the fridge. "What kind of front is this?" he said, "why is there a chicken in your refrigerator?"

Because Flynn hadn't had the heart to eat it, or throw it away, or even look at it. So he'd been avoiding the fridge and consuming warm beer and cup'o'noodles.

Flynn spoke over the stream. "You tell me, Chief." He emerged from the bathroom as the captain took the platter out, poking the chicken with his club and then turning a scrutinizing eye on the potatoes. "These are laced with something, aren't they?"

"Yeah. Garlic."

The captain grunted and grabbed a spoon, pushing back the cling wrap to grab a bite. His eyes slid slowly, disdainfully over to Flynn. "...these are delicious."

Flynn shrugged, putting his piss on the counter and washing his hands.

The captain watched him thoughtfully. "You're helpless in the kitchen. Who's been cooking for you?"

Flynn shrugged again, staring into the sink. There was something about the way the captain said that that made him sad. She had cooked for him, she had cared for him, in her way. And now she didn't show up at the bar or call him or text him anymore. It would be like he'd never met her, except there was too much evidence of her in his life, so he thought of her constantly, and missed her constantly.

"You're not allowed to have secrets, Fitzherbert," the captain said sternly. "Who's been feeding you?"

Flynn was pretty sure he _was_ entitled to _some_ secrets, but what was the point? "Just a girl."

"The same girl who apparantly painted half of your wall yellow? What's with that, anyway?"

"She has... unusual taste."

"You let a _woman_ stay in your apartment, and refrained from ravishing her long enough for her to paint and cook an elaborate meal for you?"

"Yes."

The captain looked at Flynn like he was joking. "Oh, sure, and you're going to stop thieving and settle down with this woman and get a job and support her. And then you'll get a dog. And I'm sure you're going to convince me that you actually care about another human being. Really. Where did you get this food?"

Flynn said nothing, running his hands through his hair slowly, tiredly.

The captain stared, quiet for some time. "You're serious?"

"Does it look like I have a dog?" Flynn snapped. "And you just saw the evidence of my thieving. Yeah, she came over and made dinner. Nothing has changed. Nothing's going to change. What's new?"

The captain continued to stare, thinking so hard Flynn thought smoke would come out of his ears. "This girl is really affecting you."

Flynn crossed his arms over his chest.

"Is that why you look like shit? Because I forgot to mention earlier that you look like shit."

Flynn rolled his eyes. "You always think I look bad."

The captain nodded. "But now in particular. Fitzherbert, you done gone got your heart broken, didn't you?"

"How do you know I didn't do the breaking?"

The captain ignored him, taking another bite of potatoes. "You're an idiot, Fitzherbert," he said around a mouthful. "This are damn good potatoes. Your lady friend can cook. And she must be something if she holds your attention. What did you do?"

He had pushed her away, and berated her, and tried to fool her and himself and failed at at least one of those endeavors. "I lied to her, a lot."

The captain stopped chewing, gesturing towards Flynn with his spoon. "You know, I think this is the first show of regret I've ever seen from you."

Well, it was the first regret he'd ever _felt_.

The captain shook his head, tossing the spoon aside, grabbing the piss, and heading towards the door. "If you can call yourself a man, then you're a sad one. You're a sad, sad man, Eugene Fitzherbert."


	15. Chapter 15

Voicemail, left Tuesday, 5:30 PM: "Hey, Rapunzel. It's me... Flynn. Listen, I... look, I'm sorry about what... happened. I shouldn't have reacted that way. I'll be at the bar tonight, usual time. You should come by. We can... talk about it, or something. I'll see you soon, maybe."

Text, left Wednesday, 1:28 AM: "Did you get my voicemail?"

Text, left Wednesday, 3:15pm: "Hey, I'm thinking about taking the night off. Want to come over and finish that wall?"

Text, left Wednesday, 8pm: "I'll have you know there is an enormous squirrel on my fire escape. Doesn't scare easy. Would probably let you feed it"

Text, left Wednesday, 8:02 pm: "OK, maybe it is rabid, but you could stare at it"

Text, left Wednesday, 8:19 pm: "You know, I would help with the painting, if you want"

Voicemail, left Thursday, 10:15 am: "Hey Rapunzel, it's Flynn again. You're probably at work right now. I don't know if you saw the fliers, but there's going to be a huge Russian food festival at the University tonight. I hear they put mayo on everything. I think that sounds pretty disgusting, but I'm wrong occasionally. Anyway, I know someone who knows someone, I can get us in for free. All the mayo-slathered food you can eat. Call me, I'll come by and pick you up."

Text, left Thursday, 2:47 pm: "I bet you don't HAVE to put mayo on stuff, if you don't feel like it."

* * *

><p>The previous week's meeting with Tom had been completely unproductive. After the captain berated him, Flynn had been in no mood to be psychobabbled at and dug his heels in, clamming up and rejecting all of Tom's attempts at dialogue.<p>

This week hadn't been much better. He'd stopped taking women home, which actually improved his self-esteem, but he'd started trying (and failing) to patch things up with Rapunzel which shat on his mood all over again. He'd thrown all of that food away which not only meant he had access to his refrigerator again, but it also made him feel slightly less like a helpless two year old who couldn't deal with any of his own problems. But then he thought about how pathetic it was that he was proud of himself for taking out the garbage and felt even worse than before.

Tom took one look at Flynn and went to the little kitchenette in his office and brought back two steaming mugs of black coffee. "Rough week?"

Flynn nodded, cradling the mug until it cooled a bit.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really." Telling Tom about all of his desperate attempts to get in touch with Rapunzel would only make him look and feel more pathetic than he already did. Anyway, they had a lot of work to do. The fact was that even if Rapunzel returned any of his calls, he was in the same place he was before and they'd have the same problems. He figured the best way to distract himself from missing her was to work on his shit so that hopefully when she forgave him he could manage not to just fuck things right back up again.

Flynn looked Tom straight in the eye. "At our first meeting, you said you hadn't read my file. Have you read it yet?"

"No."

"Are you planning to read it?"

"No."

"Are you _against _reading it?"

Tom cocked his head. "What's this about?"

Flynn took a breath. It was his one and only crazy psych idea and it might sound dumb. Flynn didn't like sounding dumb. But he'd been brooding about this and he thought it was worth a try. "I was thinking you could read it. Now. And just... tell me what you think. You're smart. You're pretty observant. I'm curious to know what would go through your head if you were to read about my history, or that version of my history."

Tom looked thoughtful for a moment. "You don't want to just tell me your version of things?"

Flynn shook his head. "My version is pretty skewed," he said. "That much is clear to me. The one in that folder is skewed, too. But maybe between the two of them we can... learn something?" It sounded so... fluffy. So after school special. But he was getting desperate.

Tom looked Flynn over for a minute, probably wondering if this was some weird trap, if this would violate the strange, reluctant trust between them. Then he shrugged and got up, going into the other room and returning a few minutes later with a very fat folder. "This is going to take a while," Tom said, gesturing to the thick stack of police reports, therapist notes, health records, drug tests, probably even old holiday wish lists from the orphanage.

"We've got a few sessions left," Flynn said, nodding. He'd always dreaded that folder a little bit. On the best days, he found it amusing. Now he was oddly curious. Curious to see how the state had chronologized him. How they'd organized his trials and triumphs and the weekly contents of his urine.

Tom opened to the first sheet, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Alright. No birth certificate. First page is an admissions record from St. Mark's..." Tom looked up. No doubt he'd also heard the news about the orphanage's years of hidden corruption. Flynn wondered if he'd beat around the bush or just ask the question outright. Instead, he said "Should I skip the name question?"

Flynn shrugged. "Pretend I'm not here. I want to know what you'd think of the person I am on paper."

"Okay," Tom said, smirking down at the record. "Eugene Fitzherbert, admitted at two and a half, left on the back step with a winter coat and twenty crowns." Tom tapped his pen against the page, thinking out loud. "Kids left past infancy always have a harder time of things. Sometimes they can understand leaving a new baby, but a kid who's almost three? Walking and talking, at that point. They grow up fearing that it wasn't about hardship, but that their parents just didn't like them, didn't love them. They also feel like they should have some memory of their parents, but after a few years, they usually don't. Looking at this, I'm already not surprised this Eugene needs therapy."

He flipped the page, taking a sip of his own coffee. "The kid was put into six different homes from the age of four to eight. Probably a good looking kid, since three of them were intended to be permanent adoptions. He was picked from the rest over and over by families wanting a kid, and then returned. So, a) he was probably a cute kid, and physically healthy, to attract the attention of potential families. B) He was clever enough to be on his best behavior when the families came to get him, which shows pretty high social competence for a kid his age. C) He was troubled enough that his acting out outweighed his looks, health, and smarts, to send him packing back to St. Mark's pretty quickly. This may have been deliberate - being left at the age he was probably made it hard for him to trust potential loving forces in his life, so he could very likely have unconsciously challenged and pushed these families to the breaking point rather than let them push him out on their whim." He glanced up at Flynn. "Where have I seen _that_ behavior before?"

_I dunno_, Flynn thought to himself. _In Puerto Rico?_

Tom sighed, rubbing at his stubble. "Kid's suspicions were probably confirmed when two of the temporary foster homes returned him with lacerations and bruises they claimed to know nothing about. I find that highly suspicious, and so did St. Mark's it seems, as they removed those homes from their roster after Eugene."

Flynn didn't know that. It was a pleasant surprise.

Tom read some more, thinking to himself for several moments before speaking again. "Despite those experiences, Eugene averaged two to three foster homes a year... one year he had six... until he was sixteen. Glutton for punishment, or he had a good reason for wooing these families. It's damn hard to find a foster home for fourteen-year-old boys in Corona. Families want babies, kind of like how they want puppies from the pound. So this kid was laying on the charm, which says to me that a) he still _had_ charm, impressive, b) he didn't _want _to be out on the streets, and c) he didn't want to be at St. Mark's. We've all read the news - no surprise there. This gives me some hope, as apparently Eugene still had enough self respect and survival instinct to avoid dangerous and debasing situations, which a lot of kids with his kind of background just don't have. Right about now I'm feeling relieved, because in my years practicing I've never been able to put the fight back in someone, though I've had a lot of success helping people polish it off. Of course, we're not halfway through with this guy..."

A page flip and more coffee. "High school transcript is sparse, mostly incompletes. A C in archery... interesting. Failed three semesters of algebra II... he probably liked the teacher if he kept showing up for class enough not to get an incomplete, but never turned any work in. Two As and an A- in English... huh. Into literature, this one. A's mean he actually wrote the papers, too, which with his home life is a bit miraculous. Then he dropped out at sixteen." He glanced at the next page. "And that's when he left St. Mark's, too. Guess he'd finally had enough."

It was weird to hear his life experience summed up that way. Of course it was different, looking back on it. 'Bruises and lacerations' sounded so different from his physical memories of those experiences. He thought about Mrs. Koravsky, who always took him seriously, talked to him seriously, even though he never turned in any of his algebra homework. And he remembered writing his papers for English in the computer lab after school, waiting until everyone else was gone because it was hard to concentrate if there were other people typing or chattering. He'd actually missed English a little when he'd dropped out. He remembered his teacher, Mr. Hewitt, telling him he could just get books from the library legally instead of swiping them from classrooms and bookstores, but Eugene was tired of borrowing things. He was tired of foster homes and orphanages and everything being temporary, everything having to be returned. He'd rather have things of his own, by whatever means necessary.

"Is this bothering you?" Tom asked, flipping the folder shut.

"No," Flynn said honestly, surprised by how little it bothered him. It was odd, yes. But he felt so distanced from his past that he couldn't be offended any more by the facile way they packaged him.

"Is it helpful to you?"

"I don't know," Flynn said, equally honestly. It's not like hearing about it changed anything. But there was something... necessary about it to him. That if he was ever going to get on with his life, there had to be less of a rift between who he was and who he'd once been. Or things would keep getting lost in that gap, things like people, people like Rapunzel.

* * *

><p>Leaving Tom's office, Flynn dialed Rapunzel's number for the umpteenth time since they'd last spoken. It rang and rang, and, as usual, her voicemail recording chimed in. "Hi, It's Rapunzel! LEAVE A MESSAGE! Um... bye!" Except this time he was notified that her voicemail box was full.<p>

That could mean either that she'd never heard any of his messages nor done anything with them, or, as he preferred to think, she'd saved all of his messages and listened to them over and over, like he reread all of her silly texts.

So he sent her a text, asking if she was free that night, but it bounced back as well. She had an old phone, the kind with limited text storage. Maybe she was hoarding his texts, too. Or maybe she'd blocked him somehow. Could you block someone on the phone? He'd never had to, and the idea that anyone would block him had never occurred to him.

He hadn't wanted to seem like too much of a stalker. Desperate did not look good on him. But it was time for a new tactic.


	16. Chapter 16

A few weeks after their catastrophic kiss, Flynn got a check in the mail returning Rapunzel's bail money. She must have finished her community service. He didn't cash the check. Even having it made him feel disconnected from her. It's not that he wanted monetary power over her. He just liked the idea that he was responsible for her somehow, that if something happened, or she left town, he'd be held accountable. It was the first time he'd ever wanted to be accountable for anything, even himself.

He wondered how her service went - did it hurt her to paint over her art? What else did they make her do? Pick up garbage? Clean roadsides? She probably looked cute in those little orange vests they made service workers wear. It probably dwarfed her. Awwww.

Rapunzel still wouldn't take his calls. Her voicemail box was still full and her texts still bounced. He decided to try to get in touch with her another way, and that was when he realized how little he knew about her. He wanted to stop by her place to see her, but when he called the place he'd seen briefly the night he bailed her out, they said she'd moved to another house, and they wouldn't tell him which one. And there were tons of other boarding houses uptown, let alone throughout the city. He knew she worked at a hotel, but he didn't know which one, and being a quaint, historic island city, Corona was a tourist destination. He stopped by Freddy's Market, but Freddy said she hadn't been in to eat in weeks. "That girl had an appetite!" He said. "And she was a cutie. I miss her."

Flynn tried waiting outside Jones's office around Rapunzel's appointment time, but she didn't show, and Jones said she'd call the cops if he tried stalking one of her patients again. He wasn't sure how far that would get her, but the captain didn't need any more excuses to toss him back in jail, and then he might never see Rapunzel again at all.

Flynn thought about Googling her. How many Rapunzel Smiths could there be? But he knew all he'd get would be news reports about her case, and he didn't want to read those. He'd decided long ago to know her as she wanted to present herself, as she allowed the same for him, as he frequently fucked up in taking advantage of. And sites like yellow pages wouldn't have her info since she was under police protection. He knew from experience.

He started calling a list of boarding houses looking for Rapunzel Smith, but all of them said they couldn't give out resident information unless he knew her specific room extension. He made a few wrong guesses and was snapped at before he gave up.

Then one night, the thugs at the bar were carousing as usual, but whenever he brought them another round of drinks, they quieted down and stared at him until he was again out of earshot. The third time this happened, Flynn stopped, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, what? What is it?"

A few shrugged uncomfortably and looked away, but they mostly continued to stare.

Flynn ran and hand over his face and through his hair, checking for something that might make him an object of their scrutiny, but everything about him was perfect as always. He stared right back. "_What?_"

"We're trying to see what she sees in you," Vladimir bellowed, toying with a unicorn he'd shaped out of a bar napkin.

Flynn looked around to see what floozy they were referring to, but the truth was that his popularity with the ladies had taken a bit of a hit since he'd epically failed to please several of them in a row. Word got around in Corona. No one was currently checking him out. It was a strange feeling.

"No one _here_," Big Nose said rolling his eyes. "We know what girls _here_see in you."

"Your dick!" Shorty shouted, slamming his glass of ale down on the table with a splash. "They see your dick!"

Flynn couldn't help but glance down at his snug-but-not-effeminately-so jeans. "So who's seeing me and not seeing my dick?" Was there such a person? Did he even want to know?

Hookhand groaned, shaking his prosthetic at Flynn menacingly. "Rapunzel, you dumbass. We're trying to figure out why she's so stuck on you."

It was meant as an insult, but Flynn could only perk up hopefully, like a puppy that smells a treat. "She is? How do you know that?" He hadn't heard from Rapunzel in weeks and was happy for any news, no matter how drunk and smelly the source.

"Because she goes on and on about you constantly. She used to talk about other things. Now it's Flynn this, and Flynn that, and why does Flynn say this, and why does Flynn say that, and would Flynn like this? And on and on and -"

"When does she say these things?" Flynn asked incredulously, a little slack-jawed.

Ulf started to mime something but Hookhand just barreled on. "She comes in every night off you have. She brings pastries and she's perky and cute so we listen to her simpering and whining, allllll that whining, what would Flynn think about this? What does he like to smell? What kind of question is that, anyway? What does he like to smell? What planet is she -"

Gunter held up a hand to silence Hookhand, giving Flynn an imperious eyebrow. "The lady is smitten. She regularly seeks our advice on how to behave to her best advantage around you."

Flynn was still reeling from the fact that Rapunzel had come into the bar, twice a week, every week, and he'd had no idea. That if he'd just come in on his night off to get his check or something, he'd have seen her and then he could have explained... himself. Well, that demanded understanding himself to begin with. But he could have said something slightly less aggressively moronic than he tended to say around her, and maybe they could patch things up.

His brain finally caught up with his hearing and he turned to Gunter in confusion. "How's she supposed to do that if she won't see me?"

"Exactly!" Big Nose blurted out. "That's what we said! We said she should avoid you. Not answer your calls. Make you smoke it out."

"You're mixing metaphors again," Gunter sighed, sipping his wine. "Make _him sweat it out_. Smoking him out would be the opposite. We told her to let you... stew in your juices."

Flynn made a face. That sounded disgusting no matter how you interpreted it. "Enough metaphor. You told her to avoid me?"

"Yep!" Shorty said, leaning against Big Nose drunkenly. "We told 'er to give ya the old cold shoulder, _and_ we told her to get frisky with another bloke!"

Flynn's jaw snapped closed and tensed. "You _what_?"

"We told her to... explore her options," Gunter said. "That she should experience other men and not put all her hopes in you. And that this would have the added result of riling you considerably."

"_Riling me_?" Flynn sputtered. "You think this is going to _rile me_? DO I-" He cut himself off, not finishing that sentence. He was riled. No lying about that.

They stared.

Flynn took a deep breath, embarrassed by how stirred up he was, how un-cool he was. But he'd continue to be stirred and un-cool if it meant he could see Rapunzel again and have another chance at making things work. He didn't really know what making things work would look like - did he want to _date_ her? He'd never really dated. Did he just want to give her a proper kiss? No, more than that. It didn't matter. He just wanted another chance at her.

"Okay, look," Flynn said, grinding his teeth. "We'll make this easy. I know I can't stop you guys from being meddling little bastards. But I won't let you guys use the bar for poetry night again until Rapunzel and I... until we..." until what? what was he even looking for? "Until Rapunzel stops avoiding me, so you better think about what advice you give her next time she comes in."

It was weak, but it was enough to get them whining and carrying on about the injustice. He didn't need their help, he just needed them to stop messing with her head. Flynn had already made a big enough mess of her head himself, and it was a big enough task to contemplate cleaning that up without the thugs and their brownies and their romance advice.

* * *

><p>On Sunday, Flynn put an uncharacteristic amount of effort into his appearance. He used aftershave. He wore a less beat up pair of jeans. He wore a slightly open button down over his normal white t-shirt because he remembered Rapunzel commenting that she liked the way his sleeves looked rolled up at his elbows. He combed his hair, but then had to spend a while mussing it up to look carelessly good the way it did when he didn't do anything to it at all. All-in-all, he looked kind of like a nervous wreck, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.<p>

It was his night off so he went into the bar to wait, lingering in the back so customers wouldn't bother him and so he could watch the door like the creepy stalker he was. He'd come in a side door and he didn't think any of the thugs noticed him. He nursed one beer for a long time. He didn't want any of his senses to be impaired when he saw her. But then he thought about how he didn't want to have beer-breath, either, so he stopped drinking and started sucking on lemon slices, which was disgusting and made his breath smell like dishwashing detergent. So he stopped doing that, too, and just drummed his hands on the table.

A little past ten, she came in.

And she was holding hands.

With.

Some.

Big.

JERK!

A little jerk, to be more accurate. A puny little jerk. Easily shorter than Flynn. Probably 60 lbs of muscle less than Eugene. And this kid was just that - a kid, Rapunzel's age, perhaps. And he wasn't wearing a belt and he was wearing novelty boxers and it was sickening. And he had stupid brown hair and stupid light brown eyes and a scraggly beard and...

Flynn squinted. Well, he looked a bit like Flynn had when he was eighteen or so, just less handsome and still working on his facial hair. And Flynn didn't know what to make of that - was it encouraging, because even Rapunzel's 'other options' were variations of Flynn? Or was it just depressing because he'd been replaced by a younger model and this younger model still had pimples but got to hold her hand? Flynn had never held her hand just to hold it. Only when she was scared, or stoned, or some other necessary situation. And this kid just got to touch her for the hell of it, because he wanted to and he could. It didn't matter who he was or why Rapunzel picked him. Intense, territorial jealousy churned in Flynn until he tasted bile.

Rapunzel was talking animatedly. She was adorable. Her eyes were so bright and big and she was gesturing towards her ridiculous, ridiculously lucky, companion and then looking to the table of thugs as if for a reaction. Some of them cheered, some of them jeered, a few whined 'but guys, poetry night!' Rapunzel's spoiled escort put his arm around her and pulled her close, his hand dangerously close to the gentle curve of her breast. Flynn was so tense he thought he must burst a blood vessel if he didn't get up and smash a chair over that handsy little neophyte.

But Rapunzel's smile at that moment was obviously forced, and her eyes dimmed in discomfort. And then Flynn felt triumph at her clear ambivalence about this loser and also sadness. Sadness that she was letting herself by handled by this clumsy oaf because of Flynn, to make a point to him. How long had they been... whatever-ing? Had she plucked him up that morning as unimpressive arm candy? Or had he been groping at her for weeks? How much had he groped? Did she like it? Flynn hoped she hated it. Then he didn't hope that, because that's not what he wanted for her, he didn't want her first intimate experiences to be rushed and unhappy. He didn't want her first intimate experiences to be with that fool at all. That bumbling -

Bumble, Flynn would call him. Bumble. And Bumble chose that moment to grin like an idiot and reach down and grab her ass. He did it almost sneakily, like he thought no one would notice, except of course everyone did.

"HEY!" Flynn snapped, on his feet before he could take a moment to consider his behavior. Like how absurd the entire situation was. Like that no one knew he was there to begin with and suddenly he was standing and shouting and everyone was staring.

Rapunzel stared most of all, her lips parting as she took him in. "_Flynn?_"

Crap. Uh...

Well, he might as well just press forward. He approached Bumble and stood over him, deliberately looking down at his smug little face. "Watch your hands, Kid."

Bumble raised his eyebrows, standing his ground, and doing this thing with his mouth like he was chewing gum but he wasn't. What was with people who did that? "Seems like you're watching them just fine." He gave another squeeze.

Rapunzel jumped and stepped away from him with a scowl, then turned to Flynn before he could ring that asshat's little neck. "Flynn, what are you doing here? It's your night off!"

_I'm stalking you! Okay? I'm stalking you!_

Bumble crossed his arms over his chest, jutting his chin in Flynn's direction. "Who's this? Your big brother or somethin'?"

"_No_," Flynn and Rapunzel said at the same time, then looked at each other as if to say, _but what are we?_

"This is what you've been up to?" Flynn spat, turning his rage on Rapunzel because Bumble was obviously too big of a moron to care if he was insulted. "Community service and douche bags?"

Rapunzel balked, eyebrows knitting. Shit. Not again. Was he capable of not being an asshole to her? This had to be some special level of hell, loving a girl and hurting her with everything you said or did.

"Rapunzel," he said quickly, softly. "Wait. Okay. I didn't mean that. Can we just-"

She shook her head, backing away from him and grabbing Bumble's hand. She didn't know where that hand had been! Or did she? Each thought made Flynn progressively more nauseous.

"What do you know about it?" she shouted, dragging Bumble towards the door. "And who are you to confront me, smelling like lemons and that clean smell you have anyway?" She was sputtering and he knew she was angry and he didn't like that but her words were so specific and so _her_ that he smiled, and that made everything worse.

She pointed at him accusingly. "_You_ are a douche bag, Flynn! You! I'm sorry for _myself _that I can't get over you." At that, Bumble started to protest and she dropped his hand in disgust, throwing Flynn a venomous glare. "Yes. That's what I've been up to lately, picking up garbage and douche bags like _you_. My life sucks, and I hope yours does too."

She stormed out.

And Bumble was the only one man enough to give chase.


	17. Chapter 17

"I want you to try something, the next time you see Rapunzel," Tom said, refilling Flynn's coffee.

Flynn sighed, holding the mug carefully in his hands. "Who knows if I'll ever see her again?"

"I think you will," Tom said. "And I want you to pause. Say nothing. Take a breath. After that, if you still want to say the same thing, then go ahead. If you're changed your mind, then take another breath. Say nothing until at least three seconds have gone by after which you still think it's a good idea to say that thing."

Flynn rolled his eyes. "That will make me sound impaired."

"Maybe," Tom nodded. "But that's still an improvement over your current status as jackass, you'll agree."

Flynn wasn't certain of that, but he went on. "What if I keep changing my mind and then never say anything at all?"

Tom smiled. "Still an improvement. But, I don't think that will happen. I think if you give yourself a moment to get past your knee jerk reaction, you'll realize that you really want to say just about the opposite.

It was true that Flynn did wish he'd apologized instead of berating her. He wished he'd pulled her closer instead of pushing her away.

They were quiet for a very long time.

Finally, Tom got out Flynn's file. "I've been continuing my read through," he said. "Eugene is a page turner." Tom looked Flynn over carefully, as if trying to reconcile the man in the file and the man in front of him. "Is there something you wanted me to find in here, Flynn?"

Flynn shrugged, thoroughly tired. Since confronting Rapunzel and Bumble at the bar, all he'd felt was stupid and tired.

"I think there was," Tom said. "And I think it's the same thing Walter has been trying to figure out about you for years."

Flynn rubbed his temple tiredly. "And what's that?"

"When Walter called me about you, he said he had a real puzzle for me. He said you were the smartest _and_ the dumbest person he'd ever met."

Flynn quirked an eyebrow, intrigued.

"I'm not going to lie," Tom said, shaking his head. "At first I thought he meant you had a brilliant mind, but were a social moron. That's pretty common among people with high IQs. But you're not a social moron, you're a genius about people. We talked about that, about how you manipulated all of those foster parents. All of your women. All of your partners. You lost those families and Rapunzel because you were afraid, not because you were stupid. And fear of the unknown. fear of fulfillment and loss, is a basic human instinct. In fact it is optimism that is usually associated with low intelligence and limited critical thinking skills."

Tom sat forward, getting excited in a way Flynn hadn't seen before. "And then," Tom said, "I thought maybe it was that you were brilliant, but completely emotionally stunted, completely oblivious to your own wants, needs, and motives. And this lack of self awareness made you behave erratically, as if on a whim. But now, after reading this, I think just the opposite. I think you're perfectly self-aware. I think you know exactly what you're doing. I think Walter's affinity for justice, for good and evil, right and wrong, made him misjudge you, and there's nothing moronic about you. I think everything you've done was with very specific intention. Subconscious, maybe, but not stupid. Not random."

Flynn found himself strangely enthralled. He'd love to hear how he was the secret mastermind of his own pathetic life. Was Tom faking? Was he trying to get Flynn to admit something? What?

"Look," Tom said, opening his file. "After you dropped out of high school and left St. Benoit's, you developed a very odd criminal record. The police speculated your involvement in dozens of high profile crimes, art heists, forgeries, prison breaks, the flashier the better. You left just enough of a trail to be associated with the crimes but never enough to be convicted. You wanted the attention, clearly, but you also were an expert at covering your tracks. You also clearly understood the legal system, because you always left evidence that was clearly inadmissible in court, _and_, according to Walter's frantic hand written notes, likely _framed_ several rival thieves. On the other hand, once every six months or so, you'd be arrested for something truly ridiculous, like jay walking, or speeding on a vespa, or smoking outside government buildings. You were like a little kid who misbehaves to see if his mommy still loves him enough to scold him or has given up on him completely."

Flynn wasn't sure if he should laugh or be insulted by that analogy.

"But then," Tome barreled on, adjusting his glasses. "You got involved with gangs. and drugs, and you got sloppier, and nearly got caught several times. And it was downhill until you paired up with the Stabbingtons. And this is where you really messed with Walter's head, but where I think you really gave yourself away."

Flynn sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. Gave himself away? What was there to give away? Tom was bluffing, or just bullshitting. He smirked, quirking an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Tom nodded, turning his coffee cup around and around on its cork coaster. "Yes. You made several choices in succession that the police classified as mistakes. Stupidity, maybe. Or exhaustion, or desperation. But I don't think they were mistakes, I think they were deliberate choices."

Flynn didn't much like being accused of stupid mistakes, though he couldn't begin to guess what deliberate choices Tom was referring to. He waited, putting on a bored face but really pretty drawn in.

"First," Tom said. "You chose the Stabbingtons as partners. A very odd choice indeed. You tended to pick crafty, clever partners. Even when you needed grunts. The Stabbingtons were neither of those things and were wanted for several obvious crimes making them prime targets of the police and dangerous allies. Next, you chose the most ridiculous of all heists. The crown of Corona's long dead lost princess from the National Museum? Why would you do that? Even flashy heists you did before made more sense for resale. Who would buy such a high profile piece? Its materials are not that valuable, so dismantling it or melting it down would get you next to nowhere. How could you find a fence for that? What could you possibly do with it? And _then_ your method of robbery. Really, Flynn? You dropped from the ceiling like Tom Cruise? You were always so uncatchable, so brilliant in your plotting. You left signatures, sure. But swinging from the ceiling by a rope? Caught on how many cameras? _Seen_ by guards?"

Eugene frowned. _Well, when you put it like that..._ He spoke up defensively. "How do you know it wasn't a diversion for another crime? Elsewhere in the museum? Or across town?"

Tom looked interested. "Was it?"

No... but Flynn didn't have to say that.

After several seconds of silence, Tom shook his head. "I don't think so. I don't think so because when you were caught hanging in midair by guards, you hardly struggled. And when they brought you in, you confessed to everything. And _then_ you negotiated a plea bargain - reduced sentence in exchange for testifying against the Stabbingtons in court. Do you _know_ how many people have been put into witness protection programs for testifying against the Stabbingtons? And do you know how many of those people were killed _despite_ the program?"

Flynn did know. He knew precisely.

Tom stared Flynn down. "So. You recruited unlikely partners. You sell them a completely outrageous plan. You get them arrested. You rat them out. Either you were gunning for the Stabbingtons so aggressively you sacrificed yourself to lock them up, _or..._"

That sounded pretty good, actually. He kind of sounded heroic. "Or?"

"_Or_ you wanted _yourself_ locked up."

Flynn snorted. "Have you ever been in prison? It's not exactly Disney World."

"You ratted them out, Flynn. Not only did you make yourself some very dangerous enemies, and don't think I haven't noticed the law hasn't bothered protecting you, but you burned all bridges with future partners. Who would work with you now? You betrayed your colleagues. Walter told me it's uncanny how you've cut off all your previous connections and seemingly been a model parolee. But who _would_ _want_ to affiliate with you now?"

Flynn's palms were starting to feel a little clammy. He didn't like this. He didn't like being interrogated, even if he wasn't expected to answer. He didn't like thinking about prison, or how he got there, or who was still there because of him and what that meant. He looked at the clock, but there were still five minutes left of their session.

"I think you had a huge 'oh shit' moment," Tom said looking Flynn right in the eye. "I think you've had the odds stacked against you your entire life, and you've twisted and manipulated the system since you were a child. First to avoid abuse. Then to survive. And then it got out of hand, and when gangs and drugs got involved, suddenly _you_ were the abuser. And what was necessary and even fun was neither of those things any longer. But you had a _reputation_. You couldn't just stop thieving. Where would you get a job even if you wanted to? So you made it look like a fabulous, high profile heist gone wrong, and you sold out your buddies. You were taken off the street for as little time as you could ever hope to do with your record. Now you've paid your debt to society. Now you are a free man. And no one will try to get you back into crime because you're a pariah. You're dead to them." He took a breath. "Well... _Flynn Rider_ is dead. I think you left him at Bleach Street."

Flynn's mouth went dry. He reached for his coffee but his hand was shaking, and the sight nauseated him, so he crossed his arms again.

"I don't think that life is ever what you wanted," Tom said more quietly. "I think you pushed it until you pushed too far, and you made some desperate decisions. If you wanted to be a criminal, you'd be one now. You'd break your parole. You know you could. Walter knows you could. But you don't. You want to bartend and date a nice girl. One nice girl in particular, who's in more pain that you've ever been. Who needs you as much as you need her. Who never really knew Flynn Rider at all." Tom looked him over appraisingly, but not critically. "That's what _I_ think. What do _you_ think, Eugene?"

He thought the room was too warm. He thought it was too hot for June, and the AC should be on. He thought it was weird they were drinking hot coffee instead of iced coffee. He thought the chair was always less comfortable after an hour of sitting in it. He thought he'd never heard Tom say so much at once and it was distasteful for a therapist to talk so much. He looked at the clock and he saw that the hour was up, and then he counted in his head.

"I think that was our tenth session, which means we're done, and I'm off the hook." He stood. He thought a lot more than that. He wanted to say thank you, or at least thanks for not being as terrible as Jones. But he felt Flynn Rider falling apart around him in tatters, and walking out now somehow felt like his last chance at clinging to the thing inside him that had held him up since he was only a child.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a rock that had little seashells and beads glued to it, and he placed it silently on Tom's desk where he'd found it, months ago.

"Thanks," Tom said quietly. "My daughter made that for me in Sun Scouts. I thought you might have had it."


	18. Chapter 18

**AN - For the back-story of this chapter, you should read Jungian Chapter 2.**

* * *

><p>They say that lightning doesn't strike twice, and maybe that's true. But a few days after Flynn finished with therapy, Rapunzel called him from jail for the second time.<p>

She was weepy and sheepish and apologetic, but Flynn was so thrilled to see her name on the caller ID that he didn't care what she did or why she did it or what he had to pay to get her out of that cage. "Hang on," he'd said gently. "I'll be right there. Don't worry about anything, it's going to be okay."

The guy on duty gave him a look again when he signed the bail papers. But Flynn ignored him, handing over the money. So what if he got a reputation for bailing sweet girls out of their cells? That was a reputation he didn't mind being genuine.

The cop waved him towards the hall. "I don't want to go near her again," he said tiredly, tapping his pen against the counter. "I don't trust that girl's gag reflex. She's probably had too much to drink, lay a finger on her and she'll make a mess of you, I swear. She's in cell three." He pushed the button on his console to open it. "Go on back and get her. You know where it is."

Flynn furrowed his brow, heading into the back with a quicker pace. Gag reflex? Drinking too much? Who'd been laying a finger on her, anyway? He hadn't, and he didn't approve of anyone else doing so.

The cells were all empty but number three. It was the nice area of town again, and they didn't get much traffic in their jail. Everyone who did come in usually left quickly or got rapidly shipped out to somewhere more sinister before the locals objected to their presence in the neighborhood. Even cell three only had one person in it; his poor, broken Rapunzel.

She was curled up on the corner of the cold stone bench, her legs pulled up to her chest and her face buried in her knees. She was perfectly still, not shaking with the tears he'd heard on the phone. He couldn't even tell if she was breathing. The skin of her hands, all he could see, was pale and sallow. His stomach twisted at the sight of her, anger flitting up his spine. There was no way she'd done anything to deserve this. Locking up Rapunzel was like putting a firefly in a safe. Wounding to her and to everyone who would enjoy her light.

He tapped one of the bars lightly with his knuckle. "Hey, Jailbird," he said softly. "Whatcha in for?"

She sniffed and looked up, her eyes puffy and glassy, purple circles under each. She wiped them with the back of her hand, meeting his gaze only briefly before looking down at her sneakers. "Trespassing," she mumbled, lifting her toes, one foot at a time.

He raised an eyebrow. "Where? The treasury? Why are you in here?"

"The park. It closes at dark. I was there after dark."

Corona police really needed to find something better to do with their time. Maybe he should go back to a life of crime if only to get them to pick on someone their own size instead of girls who like to hang out in the park.

He cocked his head. "Vandalism again? Where'd you put your art this time?"

She shook her head. "I didn't. I was just... there. With a boy."

Ah. Normally Flynn would have been very jealous at the idea, but instead he was just concerned, a kind of sick numbness filling his gut. She didn't have the cocky, bright-eyed look of a teenager who'd just gotten busted for getting laid. She looked wasted and miserable. "And where's your lad, now?" Some little punk needed an adjustment to his face.

Her shoulders slumped even more. "His parents came and got him."

But not Rapunzel. Jerkwad left her here, and she had no family to claim her.

"Are you okay?"

Shrugging a little, she met his eyes again, an honest, desperate curiosity in her look. "I don't know anymore. What's okay?"

He clenched his jaw, trying to appear impassive. Being protective of her when there was an asshole around to sock was one thing. Getting all angry and territorial when what she clearly needed was a little TLC was not going to help anything. "You'll be okay," he said again, pulling the barred door open. "Why don't you come on out of there, eh?"

She shrugged a little, playing with her shoe laces. "Why bother? They'll just put me back in. No matter what I do I just end up locked up again."

He entered the cell. If she wasn't going to come out, he'd go in after her. He sat down on the bench next to her and folded his hands behind his head, leaning back against the cold, rough stone wall like he was perfectly comfortable. "Sounds like you need an intervention. We have to break that cycle. How about we get out of here and I'll give you some tips on reentering society?"

She sighed a little, but said nothing, poking the bench with the aglets of her laces.

Hm, okay. Guilt trip? "I came all the way out here to get you, Princess."

She looked up at him, but it was a glare, her brows pulled low in what was surely the most adorable scowl ever.

Well, he knew her weakness. "If you leave here with me, I'll split a chicken with you at Freddy's. My treat."

He could tell she was trying to stay moody, he could see the stubborn struggle in her green eyes. But, unbidden, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, and pretty soon it had spread across her face. "I love Freddy's chicken."

He couldn't help but smile too, like his emotions were linked by puppet strings to hers. "I know you do. And Freddy misses you."

"I miss his chicken. He rubs it with a secret seasoning."

"Well, it's only open for a little while longer, so we better get out of here."

She squinted again, wise to his ruse, but the lure of well-prepared poultry was too strong for her to resist on principle alone. She got to her feet with a huff and pulled her hood up, sashaying towards the door. "Let's go!"

* * *

><p>Flynn did not know what had come over him. He felt... giddy. She was perusing the large backlit menu on the wall, her expression all seriousness, and all he could think about was how adorable she was. She was so short, and her sweatshirt was so big, and her face was so focused on the prospect of chicken. He just wanted to hug her, and scoop her up in his arms, and kiss all over her face. He had never done any of those things, to anyone, ever. He didn't even know where the ideas were coming from. He didn't want to startle her or scare her away, though, so he crossed his arms over his chest, staying silent. It had been weeks, months since they'd really spent any time together. He just watched her as the side of his body closest to her felt tingly, like his hair was standing up, but in a good way.<p>

She stroked her chin, and he could have laughed but he didn't want to offend her, so he bit his lip.

"I want corn bread," she said, turning to look at him challengingly, as if seeing how many demands she could make before he turned back into the asshole she'd known.

He smirked. "You're an expensive date," he joked, raising an eyebrow. "I see your cornbread and raise you a side of mac'n'cheese."

But she just blinked, her cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. "Date?"

"Oiiiii, Rapunzel!" Freddy said, turning to them as they were the next in line. "I've missed you! It's been too long! Good to see you. What can I do you for?" He looked surprised to see Flynn there, too, but his expression turned to a sort of 'good on you, Kid,' with a wink, which Flynn ignored.

She was still staring at Flynn, but he just looked at her expectantly, enjoying how cute she was when she was flustered.

"Uh..." she said, swallowing and turning back to Freddy. "Um... I... we... we want a chicken! And corn bread. And macaroni and cheese. _And_," she turned to Flynn again, that challenging look back in her eye. "And corn fritters! And I want a rootbeer float!"

Freddy whistled. "Girl, you're always hungry. Good for you. I like a woman who eats."

"I'll have a beer," Flynn added, taking out the cash to pay. They took a plastic number and sat down in a little booth by the window.

"_Flynn_," she hissed, leaning across the table, pulling her hood up secretively. "Is this a _date_?"

He laughed, resisting the urge, with great difficulty, to touch her nose, or push her hair over her ear, or kiss her gaping mouth. "No," he said simply, almost as relieved as pained to see her disappointment. "No, I want to do something better for you for our first date."

Her sadness turned back into surprise. She blinked, staring at him, then sat back in her seat with a huff. "Don't tease me, Flynn. That's mean. Don't tease me anymore."

"I'm not teasing you."

"Please?"

"I'm not teasing you, Rapunzel," he said gently, folding his elbows on the table. "Look... " he hesitated. So many things to say. So many hundreds of things to say. Months of thoughts and regrets, worries, wishes, hopes... how to start? What to say and what to hide? What was fair to her? What was right? He waited for a few breaths, like Tom said, letting his thoughts crystallize a little.

He sighed, tilting his head to look into her eyes under her hood. "I've missed you," he said. Simple words, but they were sincere, and they shocked even him a little. When was the last time he said what he meant, so clearly, so unadorned?

Her lips parted, her green eyes bright and open and warm beneath her lashes. This would be so much more easily communicated in other ways. He could just lean in and give her the kiss he should have ages ago. Then she would feel how he was feeling, and know what he wanted from her and what he wanted to give. But he know that wasn't fair - she deserved this conversation, she deserved an apology, and more than that. He respected her, and it seemed like with women you respect you use words first, and the rest comes later, if it comes at all.

She was quiet for a long time, just listening, as if his words kept coming even though he was saying nothing. Finally, she visibly swallowed. "...really?"

He nodded.

She bit her lip for several more seconds. "I missed you too, so much."

His heart strained at her words. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but there was the fear that he'd fucked up too much, that he'd gone too far, that he'd squashed whatever feelings she may have had for him before.

_Okay, breathe, think. Don't just say the first thing that comes into your head. Don't blow it._

"I'm so sorry," he said, softly, still sincere. "I'm sorry for the way I acted around you. I kind of... I have a set way of acting around people, and I fell back on that, even though I... see you differently from anyone else I've met. It doesn't make sense for me to treat you like anyone else when you're so..." he winced. How to describe what she was too him without sounding like a greeting card. But then, greeting cards were bland because someone else wrote them, and they were cliché. But these words were coming from his heart, and Rapunzel had never heard them before, from anyone. "You're so special to me, Rapunzel. And I just didn't know how to react to that, so I pushed you away, and I regret it." He forced himself to keep his eyes on hers, even though he wanted to look down, or run away, or smirk, or anything but this, but he had to do it. He had to do it. "No one has mattered to me before at all. And you matter _so much_. I'm sorry I didn't say that, or show it. I want to try to. I don't really know how. But maybe if you could be patient, I can figure it out."

She pushed her hood back, her hair ruffled and a little static-y, making her even _more_ adorable. Her eyes were a little watery, and Flynn hoped it meant she was moved, or happy, or something like that. "Are you... is there a catch?"

He blinked. "A catch?"

She nodded, frowning a little. "Every time something good happens to me, there's a catch. If this is really happening, this is _really good_. So you must be about to say something really bad."

He frowned too, hating that he'd somehow trained her to expect the worst from him. Hating that she'd been hurt so often and so deeply. But he also hated that he couldn't promise her there wasn't a catch. Maybe he'd do something horrible. Maybe he'd hurt her again.

No. No, it was time to stop thinking like that. It was time to try for something different. Shit happens and they'd deal with it if and when it did. But he had to stop expecting it around every turn, no matter how much reality had taught him to, or there was just no point to being free. For him, or for her, or for anyone.

"No catch," he said gently, willing the words to be true. "I don't want to hurt you, Rapunzel. I'm not going to hurt you."

She licked her lips, furrowing her brows. He could see how badly she wanted to believe him, he could see the same affection and desire and admiration in her eyes that he'd grown accustomed to. If she'd ever loved him, she still did, it was clear. "Why are you saying this now? What happened?"

"I got used to having this amazing girl in my life, and then she went away for a long time, that's what happened," he said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "I've had a lot of time to think about how miserable I am when I'm not with you."

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, just breathing. "I'm miserable when I'm not with you, too," she said, meeting his gaze again. "You're... all I can think about, sometimes."

He sighed, smiling a little. "You're all I can think about most of the time," he admitted.

She smiled too. It was small at first, but it got a bit wider as she said "You want to go on a date with me?"

He chuckled, nodding a bit. "Yes... I'd love to. What do you say, pretty girl? Are you free tomorrow?"

She was all out grinning now, and nodded enthusiastically. "Uh-huh."

He grinned back. "You just made my day."

Freddy came over with a huge platter with all of their food. Rapunzel wanted to try his beer, which Flynn allowed, though she predictably did not like it. They got sticky fingers from pulling the chicken apart, and Rapunzel blushed and fed Flynn a spoonful of her float. Between the two of them, they polished off the feast, and then cleaned up and tossed wet naps at each other like children.

* * *

><p>On the subway, they stood close together. It was the last train so it was crowded, and he held onto one of the bars overhead and she held onto him, both of them enjoying the excuse to be so close. He leaned down to brush their noses together, their lips almost touching but not, his breath dusting lightly over her cheek. He was used to breaking tension with women as soon as it formed, blowing them off or bedding them or both. Now he played it like a harp, and it was amazing and unbearable, the thread of love and want between them, still unexpressed but all the more palpable for it.<p>

She took his hand when they were on the street again, swinging it softly between them and humming. They were back uptown, and trees and bushes lined the avenues, so there was a very soft sound of crickets and peepers below the distant horns and sirens of the city. When they got to her building, Flynn paused.

"You know... I called this place looking for you, and they said you had moved."

She looked at the ground, toeing the brick walk with her sneaker. "I told them to tell you that."

He wanted to be hurt, but he couldn't. It was too understandable. He'd been cold and cruel to her, and he'd deserved to be cut off.

She looked back up at him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"No," he said easily. "You should have. It's good you stick up for yourself, and look out for yourself. I'm sorry I pushed you to that."

She shrugged, playing with their fingers. "Maybe we can just put that behind us?"

Oh God, yes, please. Start over.

She read his mind. "Maybe we could start over, Flynn?"

He hesitated when she said his name. Said that name. They couldn't start over on that foot. He couldn't let that taint things right from the beginning. "Yes, I'd like that, but..." he let go of her hand to run his through his hair. He should have thought this through already, how to tell her that he'd been lying about something so basic for so long. How to tell her the truth. Then there was the fact that she probably, hopefully, had this image of him as suave and hot and irresistible, and the truth was that his real name didn't quite live up to the sexy of Flynn Rider.

She raised her eyebrows. "But?"

"But Flynn Rider isn't... um... " Come on, man, don't trip up now. "It's kind of a... pen name. You know how sometimes authors write under a different name? And it's not a _lie_, it's just... it's just another name for them. Thieves do that too, sometimes."

"And pirates," she said helpfully, nodding. "And pilots. Like the Red Baron."

He squinted. What in the world did she watch in her free time? "Uh... yeah."

She nodded. "Are you going to tell me what your real name is?"

Why was she so calm about this? Why was she not mad? If she suddenly decided to inform him her name was actually Sue, he might be a bit mad.

"Uh... sure. It's..." he watched her carefully, ready for the explosion. "Eugene Fitzherbert."

She nodded, smiling a little. "I like that name. Do you want me to call you that?"

Huh? He made a face. "Not really," he admitted. "I guess you can call me whatever you want." He cocked his head. "Why do you not seem surprised by this?"

She blinked. "Oh... uh... was I not supposed to know?"

Now he blinked. "How would you have known?"

"I got copies of the bail papers..." she said slowly. "And you signed them that way. And it made sense to me, when I thought about it. Because of the Red Baron. And Blackbeard. And Billy the Kid. I like old movies."

Oh. Right. Damn, he wished she'd said something, that would have made all of this a lot easier a long time ago. But it wasn't really her responsibility to force him to come clean. "Why didn't you say anything?"

She took his hand again, stroking her thumb over his palm. "I wasn't sure you wanted to talk about it," she said. "You'd never mentioned it, so... I don't know, there are plenty of things I don't want to talk about."

He squeezed her hand, stepping closer to her. "I know. It's okay." He looked over her face, resting his forehead down against hers. "So you're not mad?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't think your name has much to do with who you are, to be honest. But... maybe you could try to tell me the truth from now on?"

He nodded, letting out a breath. "I will."

She smiled a little, looking at their linked hands. "You know... tonight turned out about a million times better than it seemed like it was going to."

"You lucked out, Cutie. Started out in jail, ended up eating cornbread with the handsomest man in Corona."

She shook her head. "Ended up holding hands with my favorite person."

His heart melted a little, and he brushed their noses again. He'd never been anyone's favorite person. But... "you're my favorite person, too, Rapunzel."

He nuzzled her a little more, wanting so badly to kiss her, but not wanting their first _real_ kiss to be mixed up with her memories of jail, the confusion of their discussion and of his name. And he wanted her to know that what he felt for her was real even if he didn't have the chance to make her feel the way he desperately wanted to. He'd take things painfully, glacially slowly with her if it meant he didn't push her away, or scare himself away.

She whimpered a little when he pulled back without touching their lips, and he savored the soft little sound, leading her to her door and squeezing her hand. "I have the night off tomorrow... I'll pick you up at seven?"

She nodded wordlessly, and he squeezed her hand one more time and let go. "I can't wait," he said honestly. "Sleep tight, Rapunzel."

She smiled again, and giggled, ducking inside her apartment like she was afraid she'd embarrass herself with joy. He waited until the door was closed and she'd disappeared up the stairs inside before turning for home. The trains were stopped for the night, so he had to walk all the way home. But it was a cool, nice night, and everything was good for once, and he had a date to plan.


	19. Chapter 19

How does one plan a date for Rapunzel Smith?

Or, on second thought, how does one plan a date at all?

Flynn Realized that he'd never been on a _date_ date. He knew the basic run of things. He knew most men took women on dates to impress them, to mutually assess each other, and to work up to a physical relationship, or at least a physical encounter. Flynn had never had to work up to that, though. Nor had he had to do much to impress women. Furthermore, that wasn't why he wanted to take Rapunzel out. If he heard any other man say this, he'd have called bullshit, but he honestly just wanted to spend time with her, to be around her, to see her happy and know that it was his doing. He was so tired of making her sad.

He didn't want to do something canned. Dinner and a movie would probably be disingenuous to both of them. _Hey, we've both been in therapy for ages, analyzing ourselves according to our reactions to each other. How about a romantic comedy? _ A romantic comedy would probably be the worst choice, really, just reminding them how completely bizarre their real 'dating' situation was.

Besides, he wanted to interact with her. If they went to a movie, he knew he'd be far more interested in watching her reaction than the contents of the film itself.

On the other hand, Rapunzel might love the movies. The huge screen, the spectacle, the loud music, and all of those snacks...

Hm...

Then there was the fact that all the things he thought Rapunzel would most enjoy felt very field-trip-y. She loved to learn, to experience new things. She loved nature, and art, and things she could touch, with which she could interact. And he didn't want to be her chaperon, he wanted to be her boyfriend. Er. Her lover. Or... her Guy... or something. Be hers. No. Be _around_ her.

He rubbed his temples.

Well, what was wrong with field trips, anyway? They were supposed to be a lot of fun. And Rapunzel had never been on one. Neither had Flynn, actually. His guardians, or the orphanage, would never sign his slip because he was so poorly behaved. Besides, everything was new and interesting to Rapunzel. Her whole life and anything they did together was likely to resemble a field trip, and that's okay. He wanted to get on the bus. Her crazy bus.

She did a twirl for him when he picked her up at 7. She was wearing a little lavender sundress with thin straps and mini eyelets. It was the first time he'd ever seen her shoulders. Until that moment he'd never known shoulders could be so slender and lovely. And those legs... definitely not field trip legs. He let out a low whistle. "Well, look at you, Gorgeous."

She blushed prettily, looking very pleased with herself. "It's not too much?"

He shook his head. "No way. You look great."

"You do, too!" she said with a grin, and he relaxed a little, because he'd put effort into his appearance again and his confidence in his looks decreased the harder he'd tried to look good.

He took her hand, and her eyes lit up. She was amazing for his ego. Little things completely made her day.

They headed to the aquarium, and she got so excited when she saw the sign he thought she might trip over herself. At the entrance, they take your picture in front of a green screen and try to hock it to you later. Flynn was rather immune to these schemes, but Rapunzel was so into it that he relaxed a little, and managed to smile pretty naturally when she threw her arms around him and beamed into the camera, and he even made the kissy fish face with her when she asked him to.

Flynn thought she would beeline for the tropical tank with all the angelfish and neon fish and crazy spiny fish, but instead she went straight for a darkened tank filled with cuttlefish. She waved him over with a grin, getting as close to the glass as possible without violating the signs requesting not to touch. "Look Flynn," she said excitedly. "They change color, just like Pascal. they can camouflage or turn flirty colors if they like another cuttlefish."

Flynn smiled, not paying too much attention to the tentacle-y fish as they flapped around near the sandy bottom. He was watching her face as it lit up and the smile that stole over it, her little dimples, the way her freckles stood out when she wrinkled her little nose. She was the cutest, most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Like that," she said, pointing. "That one is orange and pink right now. Completely impractical. It must like the other cuttlefish near that rock there."

He really thought about kissing her, in the dim glow of the cuttlefish tank, but he didn't feel like mirroring the amorous behaviors of a sea creature, so he cleared his throat and asked if she wanted to see the penguins. Of course she did!

They made their way over to a little balcony where they could look down into the multi level penguin area, which was a big swimming space with some rock formations. He found space for them by the railing between two families and let Rapunzel stand in front so she could see.

"Which of the penguins are you?" She asked, holding onto the railing and bouncing a little.

He raised an eyebrow. "_Am_ I?"

She nodded. "Yeah! Like... I'm that one!" She leaned forward and he instinctively reached out to catch her waist. The last thing he needed was her toppling down into the penguin pool. He knew how to swim and he supposed a water rescue could be romantic, but then he'd smell like fish and penguin shit.

She gestured to a chubby fluffy grey penguin that was dancing back and forth on its two webbed feet, skittering about on one of the rocks.

Flynn rested his chin on her shoulder, looking around for the penguin that most resembled himself. Finally, he pointed to one that was snatching fish from the mouths of other, less aggressive penguins. "I think that's me."

"The fish thief?" she asked with a giggle, and the way she turned her head it felt like she was nuzzling his face, which made his stomach flutter a little, and if he wasn't so wrapped up in how amazing she smelled he'd be embarrassed that fluttering was something his stomach did. She shook her head, which felt like nuzzle nuzzle. "I don't think so," she said. "I think you're that one."

The skittery Rapunzel penguin was dancing over to a rather tall, dashing looking penguin with black feathers and orange and yellow stripes like fancy sideburns. The grey one bumped into him and he just stared at her for a second, then, unexpectedly, touched his beak to the top of her head.

"See! A strange but adorable duo like us!" she declared.

He couldn't help but smile at her assessment of them, and her more flattering penguin comparison than the fish thief. It was nice to actually have someone's good opinion for once. Even if he didn't think he deserved it from her.

They spent some time looking at the giant ocean sunfish swimming around in circles, and then made their way to the hands-on tide pools. There were only children there, but Rapunzel didn't seem to care, lifting up every single star fish, one at a time, and slowly stroking its bumpy back, then handing it to Flynn, who did likewise to please her, before putting it back down into the tank. He didn't care that he was three times the height of the other observers around him. Watching her face light up at every new texture and sensation was worth it.

After marveling over the darkened jellyfish tanks, the sea lions, and the giant eels (Rapunzel was the only one near the glass who wasn't making ewwww noises), they made their way to the big domed Omni theater. Flynn thought this was a good idea because it was an interactive date and a movie date in one. Rapunzel couldn't stop twitching in her seat, looking all around at the huge auditorium and trying to figure out how it worked. She was delighted when the show opened with a demonstration of the media systems, soaking in the new information with delight. He loved to watch her learn. This was all new to him too, but it was still much more exciting watching her reactions than the actual events.

The film wasn't terribly romantic. Actually it was about giant squid. But there were ample shots designed to thrill the audience so there were plenty of adorable squeals and gasps from Rapunzel, and plenty of occasions for her to grab his arm and cling in a way so endearing he wanted to squeeze her back. But he tried to play it at least a little cool.

When they'd seen all the fish and touched all the sea urchins and read about barrier reef ecosystems and watched a shark feeding, they were funneled through the gift shop, where they were shown the photos they'd taken earlier. They'd been planted in front of a watery wonderland, smiling and posing for the camera. Rapunzel loved them, and while Flynn was buying her a giant stuffed harbor seal, Rapunzel bought a set of the fish face photos and one of them smiling, which she stuck in the little plastic photo frame key chains sold with them. She presented one to Flynn, trading it for the seal with glee. She named the seal Rufus, and Flynn put his three keys (one for his building, one for his apartment, and one for the bar) on a key ring for the first time in his life.

Rapunzel wanted ice cream for their late dinner, so they got two extra large cones, one of mint chocolate chip and one blackcurrant, and traded off back and forth eating on the way back to her place. Flynn was feeling pretty pleased with himself when they arrived back in the foyer. Rapunzel had that slight flush from happiness and overstimulation that meant it had been a good date. Which meant she'd likely say yes if he asked her on a second date. Which meant he had to do something equally fun and diverting and he was starting to feel a little stressed about that when she glanced up at him and shyly asked, "Would you like to come up and see my room?"

"I'd love to," he said with an easy smile. The cross-looking lady at the front desk made him sign in, and tersely reminded them that while male guests were allowed, they were to be out by 11:30 pm, the door was to remain open for the duration of his visit, and all occupants of the room were to have both feet firmly planted on the floor at all times. It was _that_ kind of boarding house. Maybe this should have deterred him, but there was something kind of fun about the fox-in-the-henhouse ambiance.

Rapunzel led him up to her room on the third floor. It was modest in size, but she made up for it with personality. Her twin bed was covered in a duvet that looked like it had been hand-dyed to resemble the surf, and the bed was covered in colorful throw-pillows. She'd plastered the walls with her drawings, some of which he recognized from the sketch book he'd given her and her time in the bar. There were multiple drawings of his eyes, which might have been creepy if he couldn't clearly remember the adorable way her tongue stuck out in concentration while she'd drawn them. Her desk was riddled with books and various art supplies. It looked like she'd just bought a Polaroid camera, and a few random pictures from around her building were scattered on the floor.

By far the strangest thing he noticed was a little cage full of crickets. He bent to peer at it. "Pet crickets?"

"No no," she said, arranging Rufus among the pillows. "Those are just food for Pascal."

...food for her imaginary Chameleon friend? The crazy plot thickens.

"And where is Pascal's cage?" he asked casually.

She laughed. "I'd never keep him in a cage! When I feed him, I let the crickets out and he hunts them around the room. He also really likes fruit salad. I mix it up for him. He's not here right now, or I'd show you. He's probably out having an adventure." Somewhere in the back of his head, Flynn noted how undisturbed he was by this information.

She patted the bed next to her with a smile, and Flynn raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Something tells me that's against the rules."

She smirked right back. "We just have to keep our feet on the ground. And I don't think getting in bed with me is a violation of your parole."

He was pretty sure she didn't mean 'get in bed with' the way most people would mean it, but it turned him on anyway, and he sat next to her. "You've been thinking this over?"

She tilted her head with a bit of a blush. "Maybe just a little."

"You little minx."

"What's a minx?"

He smiled as she scooted closer to him, proving his point. "Someone who's calculatingly flirtatious."

She looked up at him, her big eyes so green and with such secretive joy in them he couldn't look away. "Well, is it working? My calculating flirtation?"

"Uh huh." He leaned in a little and their noses brushed. She drew him in like gravity, pulling at his senses, so soft and sweet smelling. He reached up to run his fingers through her short, silky hair, finally cupping her jaw and gently tilting her face up. His eyes searched hers, her expression, looking for some anxiety or unhappiness but there was none. She knew who he was, Eugene Fitzherbert, Flynn Rider, both of them and neither of them. She knew what he'd done, some ofwhom he'd done. They knew how scarred and vulnerable the other was, and if they wanted to, they could destroy each other.

But all they wanted was this closeness, this gentleness, the thrill and comfort of being held and caressed by someone who could so badly wound you but chose to care for you instead. They both closed their eyes when their lips touched, the tender, fragile connection making them both still, their breath catching. She tasted so sweet, sweeter than he remembered, and he'd spent an agonizing amount of time remembering the last time he'd pressed his lips to hers. He moved his lips just slightly on hers, so carefully, so slowly, more an expression of affection than any other kiss he'd ever given, unique in his history with women.

He pulled back, looking over her face again. Her eyes opened slowly, and he could see there, silently, that he hadn't harmed her, or anything between them, that she only wanted more from him, and he was finally in a position to give it to her. And now that their first genuine kiss was over, all bets were off.

He met their mouths again, this time more passionately, leaning down to kiss her full on. Her arms went around his shoulders and she pulled him close, twisting so they could press their bodies together without picking their feet up off the ground. It made him laugh a little, and that made her laugh, and they were laughing and kissing, wrapping their arms around each other. He couldn't get his fill of her, sucking on her lower lip briefly before tilting her had back to deepen the kiss, both of them moaning softly when their tongues touched.

She tried to lean back and pull her with him and he felt like a teenager, like he'd do anything to climb on top of Rapunzel. But she was so short that she couldn't quite lean back without lifting her feet, so she broke the kiss long enough to grin and toss some pillows on the floor, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him with her down onto the soft woven throw rug. "She didn't say _only_ our feet could touch the ground," she said before leaning up to kiss him again, her mouth more demanding by the second, her need sparking his own stirring in his gut. They were rolling around on her bedroom floor like the otters they'd laughed at and fuck he was already hard for her and he had no plans of relieving that that night.

"So devious," he mumbled, smiling against her lips. "We make a good team."

She moaned softly in response, the little noise driving him wild. Their tumble was completely inelegant, but completely fun and addictive, grinding against each other through their clothes as they laughed and rolled and kissed, sexy and silly, and hotter and more fun fully clothed than many of Flynn's x-rated romps in the past.

There was a harsh clearing of a throat at the door, which, of course, they'd left wide open. The land lady was standing with her hands on her hips, and she looked unimpressed.

"Miss Smith, we do not encourage creative interpretation of our rules here," she said sternly. "It is now 11:30 and time for your guest to leave."

Rapunzel grinned, her hair all mussed up, her breath short and fast. She looked like she'd run a mile while singing and dancing. She was gorgeous. He was so completely smitten.

He kissed her again, softly, ignoring the additional throat clearing that earned him. "I'll call you when I get home," he promised, standing and helping her up.

"Okay," she agreed, squeezing his hands after she got to her feet. They pressed their foreheads together, standing with their arms around each other, not wanting to let go. He couldn't remember another time when he'd hesitated to leave a woman, let alone made any promises to any of them.

She smiled up at him, her eyes soft, her fingers tenderly stroking his nape. "I had a great time," she murmured. "Thank you for taking me out."

"You're welcome," he answered, his voice gentle and earnest. He couldn't look away from her, his hands softly on her back, his fingers mirroring her gentle strokes. "Thank you for a great night. Can I see you again? Tomorrow?" he asked, not caring if he sounded clingy. He'd have to start counting to three before speaking now for an entirely different reason, to keep from sounding as enamored as he was.

She nodded, biting her lower lip adorably. "Yes."

He kissed her again, his hands retreating to cup her face, and then one more kiss, and... okay, one more. This time, he heeded the throat clearing and left, not looking back. If he did, she'd see his dopey grin, and Eugene wanted to maintain at least some of his hard earned Flynn Rider mystique.


	20. Chapter 20

The next night found them at his apartment. He said he'd take her anywhere, and she said she wanted to work on her mural. He'd lit a cigarette and watched her for a bit, but he found it was hard to watch without wanting to touch her, and she seemed to really enjoy painting so he didn't want to interrupt just yet.

Instead, he went up to his loft and dug around under his bed for his stash. He hadn't lied when he'd told the captain he was keeping it there. He felt around until he pulled out the long plastic storage bin. He wiped some of the dust off and removed the lid, taking the books and pamphlets and notes out and tossing them down onto the couch below one by one.

When he climbed down again, Rapunzel hadn't even glanced away from her work. She was covering the bottom half of the wall with a light spring green, painting huge swathes at a time. "Alright, Sugar," Flynn said, opening up the thickest of the books. "You said it's your dream to go to college, right?"

She looked over her shoulder, dripping green paint onto the newspaper at her feet. "Yes!" She said brightly. "You remembered!"

"Of course," he said with an easy smile, tapping some ash into an empty beer can and flipping through the pages. "Well, first you have to get your GED. I have all these books from my time at Bleach Street, and I thought I could shoot you some practice questions while you paint."

She rested her wrist on her hip, now dripping paint onto her little toes. Her smiled softened into something sweeter. "Really? You'd do that?"

"Sure, why not? Probably would be good for me to review, too. I never did end up taking the test. I might as well."

"We can take the test and go to college together! And paint our faces for hockey games like the guys at the bar!"

"Whoa, I don't know about all of that. I don't think college is for me. And don't start aspiring to be like anyone who comes into the bar. That's a step backwards. A big one."

"I like the bar," she said, the dying evening sunlight warm on her face through his slatted blinds. He watched her through the smoke and thought she was beautiful. And he wondered if little moments with her would ever get old, or if his life would just be beautiful with her in it.

"That's fine for now, but we've got bigger plans for you, Chickadee." He glanced at the section headings. "Let's start with social studies. It's government structure and Corona history and stuff like that."

She put her brush down and wiped her hands on the front of her jeans, coming over to curl up on the corner of the couch, six inches away from him. "_We've_ got bigger plans?"

"Mmmhmm," he said, taking a drag from his cigarette. "I'm going to help you. We're going to get you there. It's your dream, right?"

She toyed with a strand of her hair, getting some of the green paint in it, as if she could be more adorable. "You know..." she said quietly, looking at him with obvious shyness. "It's really kind of a dream come true just being here with you."

Her eyes were so soft and earnest, and it was strange that he didn't feel his normal instinct to meet sincerity with sarcasm. Normally if he heard a comment like that he'd say something smart or dismissive or just mean, but there wasn't even a remark like that on his tongue. "For me too," he said, setting the book in his lap and holding out his arm towards her. "C'mere."

She grinned and scooted closer until he could wrap his arm around her, not caring if she rubbed paint off on him. He tucked her against his side. Her heart was beating so quickly, he could feel it. Despite all of her spirit and strength, she was so small, and felt so fragile. He turned his head to press a kiss against her crown. The idea was to read this to her while she was painting, but he wasn't going to turn this down.

"So, history of Corona," he said, balancing his cigarette between two fingers while turning pages with his thumb. "Now most of these questions are just common sense. So even if you've never heard of the topic, don't panic. Just listen to the options and see what would make the best guess."

She nodded, leaning her cheek on his shoulder. Or maybe he could just put the book down and kiss her. That sounded like a good idea.

He cleared his throat instead. "Okay. Name the main cause for the Corona Revolution. A) Pressure from foreign powers B) Mass economic hardship C) Royal family resistant to change or D) a combination of the above."

Rapunzel hummed in thought, and she seemed about to answer when her breath caught, and she froze completely. She was rigid against him, and he looked down in worry. "Rapunzel?"

"Shh!" she said, getting up and running to the window, her eyes wide as she listened.

Flynn listened, too. But he didn't hear anything. Distant traffic noises, some kids laughing down on the street, an ice cream truck.

"Do you hear that?" she turned to him, her eyes a mix of intense emotions, somewhere between glee and melancholy, or both at the same time.

Some ash fell onto the pages of the book, and Flynn hastily dropped the remains of the cigarette in the can. "Hear what?"

She slowly started singing along with the horrid, cliché music of the ice cream truck. The same truck that drove through most evenings around this time. He'd thought about hijacking it before, or at least bashing its speakers in. If this was Rapunzel's idea of good music, he had some teaching to do.

"What _is_ that?" she asked, her lips parted. "Do you know?"

"Sure," he said, squinting at her a little. "It's an ice cream truck?"

"A _what?_"

"...An ice cream truck."

She just stared at him wonderingly, blinking.

He got up, patting his pockets to make sure he had his keys and his wallet. "You've never seen an ice cream truck before?"

She shook her head. "What is it? A truck shaped like ice cream?"

"No," he said with a smile, motioning for her to follow. "Come on, we need a study snack anyway."

She grabbed her Polaroid camera, which she took with her everywhere now, and quickly went after him. There wasn't the normal bounce in her step though, she almost seemed apprehensive. Maybe she was worried the truck would keep playing that music only louder the closer they got to it, which was definitely his own concern.

They followed the repetitive din around the block, where he spotted the truck pulled over near a rather beat up basketball court. They got in line. "It's just a big truck that some poor bastard has to drive around all day and sell ice cream from. It plays music so the kids in the neighborhood know it's coming."

She took it all in with wide owl-eyes, studying the menu and also the speakers, the tires, the man in the window, the scuff marks on the fenders. Then she turned to a mother in line and asked her to take a picture of her and Flynn in front of the ice cream truck.

Flynn was a bit surprised, which he shouldn't have been. Who knew what Rapunzel was going to find significant? He hadn't yet been able to predict, though he was getting better. He put an arm around her and smiled for the photo and Rapunzel took the camera back with a quiet thank you and trembling fingers.

"You okay?" he asked gently, watching her wave the photo around. She stared at it, waiting for it to develop. She nodded, but he wasn't so sure. Luckily, it was their turn in line, and ice cream was something that consistently cheered her up. He nudged her a bit and smiled. "What'll it be, Pretty Girl?"

She brightened a bit, glancing at the menu again. "Ummmmm a fudge toffee bar!" she turned and gave him the familiar _can I get two?_ eyes and he nodded. "And a super delux comet pop!" He got a comet pop too, and they took a seat on a bench by the court.

"You know," he said, leaning in as if he was sharing a secret. "Sometimes, growing up, I'd save up change I 'found' and they'd let us buy ice cream from the truck when it came by. I always got these comet pop things because they have three flavors, so I felt like I was cheating the system, getting three things for the price of one."

She laughed a little, getting some chocolate on her face as she devoured the fudge bar first. "I wish I knew you when you were little."

"I think it's best I had some time to evolve a bit before we met. I wasn't a very nice kid."

"I don't believe that," she said, tilting her head to bite from the bottom, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of ice cream. "I bet you were a really nice kid, but people weren't nice to you. I've watched you. You treat people the way they treat you."

That gave him pause. Was that true? Was he that simple? He thought of all the bitter times he'd treated her badly when she hadn't deserved it. But then, there they were, spending a summer night eating ice cream novelties and studying for the GED. Maybe she was right.

She tossed the fudge wrapper in a bin nearby and then opened her comet pop, starting on the blue end. Eugene preferred to skip around. "Lemon, raspberry, and cherry," he explained, pointing to the stripes.

They were quiet for a while, watching the heat quiver over the asphalt as the sunset cast an orange glow over the city. The last of the customers were served and the truck window closed so it could start back up and resume its noisy occupation of the port district.

Rapunzel watched it go, glancing down at the photo of them resting on her knee. She polished off her popsicle and swallowed. "When I was... growing up," she said hesitantly. "We lived in a house surrounded by trees with a long driveway. I know now that it was just a few blocks or so from a really populated housing development with lots of kids. Anyway, starting in late spring, every day around the same time I'd hear that music, that kind of twinkling music, how it sounded out of tune the farther away it was, and then in tune when it was close. I didn't usually hear things besides woodsy sounds. I kind of used it to mark time. I had all kinds of ideas about what it was... maybe a traveling musician, who always played the same song. Maybe some creature. Maybe it was some natural phenomenon related to the heat. I hadn't really thought about it since I left, until just now."

Flynn's throat tightened as she spoke. He wanted to hear anything she wanted to share with him about her past, but it always made him very angry. The idea that she was so isolated she spent time wondering about some stupid music. The idea that there were lots of people not so very far away and still no one found her, no one knew she was there. He swallowed painfully. "Did you ask your... that woman?"

She nodded. "She said she didn' t know what I was talking about. She was never home when I heard it. She thought I was making things up. I think I did start to wonder if I was going a little crazy. I mean, I was definitely going crazy. More than a little crazy. But not about this, I guess."

He looked at the photo now, too. "Are you disappointed?"

She smiled a bit, her eyes crinkling a little at the corners, looking more like herself. "No. It's actually pretty neat that there's a truck that wanders around selling ice cream. That actually makes me pretty happy. But it is weird to think about things that are so ordinary that seemed so extraordinary to me then. It makes me a little sad... not to find out the reality of things, just to think about what I did to fill my time. What I wondered."

It made him sad, too. But he wanted to turn it around and make her happy again. "When I was little," he countered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought that clouds were made out of the same stuff as cotton candy. I was totally convinced."

She tilted her head back and laughed. "That would be amazing. I wish that were true." Then she peeked at him curiously. "What _are_ clouds made out of, anyway?"

"Uh... dust and water? Something like that." She was laughing at him, and he hoped it wasn't because she already knew the answer and he was wrong. But she just pointed.

"You're mouth is all blue," she said gleefully. "Is mine?" She opened and stuck her tongue out.

"Yep. Totally blue-mouthed."

"Come here," she said, that adorable little scheming look back in here yes. "Tell me if I taste like a popsicle."

He grinned and bent to kiss her, happy that at least some discoveries were good ones, and some of her questions he could easily answer.


End file.
